


Ghost in the System

by Hannah_BWTM



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Gen, Hospitalization, Isolation, Mental Health Issues, Missing Persons, Mistaken Identity, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:09:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28128156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannah_BWTM/pseuds/Hannah_BWTM
Summary: Malcolm finds himself being transported across the country as a prison inmate when the team’s undercover operation goes south.He has no power, no allies and has no idea just how bad things can get.The team are in a race against time to find him.BTHB Square: Communication Cut Off- Chapter 1BTHB Square: Handcuffed or Manacled- Chapter 5
Comments: 80
Kudos: 142
Collections: Bad Things Happen





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the start of a new adventure! I will be updating regularly in the new year, but I wanted to post something before the year ended. I hope you like it! 
> 
> I'm hoping you're happy to roll with story as I turn up the angst. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has supported my fics this year, I love you all ❤

_ Look at me. Someone. Please. _

Malcolm casts his gaze around the busy airport, desperate to make eye contact with someone. If just one person can see the look of panic in his eyes they might ask if he’s okay. He watches with despair as the crowd of people part for him, turning away one by one.

A bulky navy-blue denim jacket obscures most of the manacles and chains that restrict his movement to nothing faster than a walk. The silver belt chain around his waist is visible through a gap in the centre and the sound of the metallic links clinking together is audible enough to serve as a warning to anyone in their path.

He is alone.

Not literally of course. The grip on his upper arm is firm as it guides him across the concourse, towards Gate 22. His escort is a US Marshal, assigned to transport one Johnny Taylor for the purposes of testifying at a property laundering trial in Colorado. The man is just carrying out orders, but Malcolm tried to tell them on the ride over that there's been a mistake. He was supposed to be undercover in the prison to find out more about the team’s most recent murder case, not on his way to the opposite side of the country.

He has no idea what’s gone wrong.

They arrive at the gate as the airline's frequent flyer members are being called to board the plane. The Marshal doesn’t even queue, instead he marches Malcolm straight to the front of the line. Paperwork is handed over to the gate host and the escort's tone is short.

“Priority passenger, we need to get him secured before the rest of the flight boards.” the Marshal orders.

The airline staff glance through the documents, and Malcolm risks a quick look around at the boarding lounge while they wait. Passengers are openly gawking at him, averting their gazes quickly when Malcolm rotates his head in their general direction. After being roused in the early morning hours he probably looks frightening, which isn’t helping. Once the transfer is approved, the pair are led down the air bridge to the plane and shown to the back of the aircraft.

The Marshal points to the window seat, “You’re in first, Taylor.”

Malcolm swallows nervously, he doesn’t want to be boxed in. “I don’t really need a window seat, always preferred the aisle.”

“Protocol dictates I get the aisle seat, in you go.”

Malcolm has no choice but to shuffle into the cramped space. As the Marshal secures his seat belt there’s noise from the front of the plane as passengers start to take their seats. The man beside Malcolm twists his body and blocks the aisle, staring daggers at him. This won't be a standard pre-flight presentation. 

“You must have a pretty good lawyer setting up a sweetheart deal like this. I've been called in to cover this transfer at the last minute, and I've had to get up at some god awful hour to drag your ass across the country. So here’s the deal. You don’t talk to anyone. You don’t look at anyone. If I catch you doing either of these things, I have the authority to sedate you. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes sir.” Malcolm quietly agrees.

It takes about fifteen minutes for the passengers to take their seats. Malcolm stares out the window, trying to figure out how he can contact Gil and sort this out. How he can find someone to believe him. It’s a long shot that anyone would believe a prisoner on a plane was actually working  _ for _ the police in the first place. His escort certainly doesn’t seem interested in hearing anything he has to say.

As the plane begins to taxi, Malcolm glances at the passengers across the aisle. They are a family of three, and the little girl is staring at him with open curiosity. Malcolm risks a small wave of his cuffed hands and a smile, which the girl enthusiastically returns. Kids have an affinity for viewing the world differently. For a moment he’s grateful for being treated like normal, until the father realizes who their daughter is waving at. He gasps, stops her waving instantly and looks across at Malcolm with contempt and loathing.

Like he’s subhuman.

It shouldn’t hurt this much, but it does.

The trapped profiler tilts his head towards the window to admire the view as they leave New York, deciding he's seen enough of humanity for the next few hours. As the plane takes off the emotions of the last few hours catch up with him. A tear spills onto his cheek as his mind runs through his options, none of them are particularly good.

JT should realise that he’s missing when Block Two files in for breakfast, he just hopes that the team figures it out sooner rather than later. If Malcolm knows anything about the prisons, it’s that cooperating witnesses aren’t the most popular of people in the system.

He has no idea what is waiting for him in Colorado. And he doesn’t want to have to find out.

**%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%**

**FOUR DAYS EARLIER**

“I’m not sure I like this idea, Bright.” Gil leans against his desk, sipping his second coffee of the day. Malcolm turns toward him excitedly.

“C’mon, I’ve always wanted to do undercover work. And I’d be perfect for this, I can read everyone in there.”

JT appears unconvinced, “You mean, you’d be perfect to get your ass whooped. I’m with Gil on this one.”

“Guys, I was FBI once, I can handle myself! We need eyes on the inside, and the warden has asked for our help. We need to find out for sure if the food wholesaler murder we’re investigating is tied to the financial irregularities with the prison’s finances.”

“I am aware of the impact on our case if we don’t check this lead out, but what you’re proposing is incredibly risky. If you think I am going to let you walk into a prison with no back up you’ve got another thing coming.” Gil’s expression is firm.

Ever prepared, Bright steps forward and grins. “What if I had back up?”

“You mean, one of us?” Gil's eyebrows reach skyward. 

Malcolm claps his hands together in excitement. “Yes! Ask the warden for a new guard placement, and have them assigned to the same block as me.”

“It’s not the worst idea he’s had.” Dani notes.

“That’s a low bar, Powell.” Gil lowers his eyes as he considers the suggestion. “JT goes in too, or it doesn’t happen at all.”

“Aw, you mean I gotta babysit this guy all day?” JT winces like a man who's been asked to solve string theory. 

“Not necessarily. Just…be an extra pair of eyes for Gil. Besides, you’re probably the best person in the team to pass the entrance requirements for working there.” Malcolm’s eyes dart excitedly among the sea of skeptical faces, sensing the team is coming around to his plan.

JT sighs before looking at Malcolm. “If we’re doing this, I get to pick your name.”

“You want to do what?” Of all the things Malcolm had expected JT to say, this wasn’t one of them.

“If I have to watch you at work, I better come up with a name that I’ll remember. How about…. Johnny Taylor.”

“As in JT?” Dani smirks.

Malcolm’s face lights up. “Like  _ your _ JT? Is that it, Jonathon Taylor Tarmel?”

“Not a chance, Bright. I think Taylor suits you.”

“Seeing as we’re picking out names, it’s only fair I get to choose yours.” Malcolm studies JT with mock concentration. “I’m thinking Michael Burrows.”

“MB? You really gonna do that?”

“Why not? It’ll be easy to remember.”

“Can we focus please?” Gil interrupts. “If we’re good enough at our jobs we should be able to find something in all of these text messages that will make all this talk meaningless.”

“Right. Sorry. Let’s go back to the trail of texts on the vic’s phone and try and find a convergence between the business and our murder disguised as a mugging.” Malcolm turns his attention towards the files, waiting for said evidence to jump out at him. An entire afternoon passes without any further progress, and reluctantly Gil places a phone call to the warden.

Fishkill Correctional Facility will have a new inmate and guard tomorrow.

The team spend the rest of the evening reviewing the details that they know, and strategise what Malcolm and JT might need to look for to help crack the case.

**18 HOURS LATER**

“You don’t seem too worried about this, man. You know you’re about to head into a prison, the kind of place your dad is locked up in?”

Malcolm and JT bounce gently from inertia inside the corrections transfer van as it makes its way towards the prison. JT had started his new job earlier in the day and his first task was transporting one Jonathon Taylor to Fishkill Correctional. He’d picked Malcolm up from a neighboring precinct to remove Precinct 16 from any documentation and protect the operation. A hastily purchased burgundy sweater with black jeans from Macy’s was Malcolm’s wardrobe for the day, as Dani had helpfully pointed out earlier in the morning that arriving in an Armani suit may set some alarm bells off. Malcolm isn’t wearing handcuffs at the moment, as they are the only occupants of the vehicle. JT made sure he could provide Malcolm that small comfort on the hour’s journey out of the city.

Malcolm considered his feelings for a moment before answering. “I wouldn’t say I’m excited, more like I’m viewing this as an assignment. This is not the same as my father. It’s minimum security, I won’t be tethered to a wall and I will have you watching my back. I can read people well enough to know how to keep myself out of trouble.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it. I’m starting to feel like I should have asked for more hazard pay.”

The two men slip into a comfortable silence as the density of apartments and houses begins to drop and trees begin to line the highway. A familiar gas station that JT had memorized as a mental marker on the way into town creeps into view, and JT reluctantly pulls out the handcuffs. “We’re close, Bright.”

Malcolm nods and relaxes his arms in front of him, and JT pretends not to notice when Malcolm flinches as the handcuffs snick into place.

“Too tight?” JT worries.

Malcolm smiles ruefully. “No, they’re just a little cold.” JT doesn’t buy it. The silence between them grows heavier, and when Malcolm glances up and meets JT’s gaze the man lets his eyebrows do the talking. Knowing he’s been caught out, Malcolm’s gaze drops as he admits, “It’s just…a reminder of what happened at Christmas.”

Trauma can be a bitch sometimes. JT knows that if Malcolm walks into the prison in this head space the operation will be doomed before it’s even started. He needs to pull Bright back from whatever hole he’s started to spiral down toward.

“Hey, listen to me.” JT ducks his head to catch Malcolm’s eyes. He does, and when JT tilts his head back up Malcolm mirrors his movement. “I’ve seen where you’re going, how people are treated inside and these are the only cuffs you’re gonna wear while you’re in here, okay? I’ll be right next to you until we get you inside. You won’t be alone.” 

The smile on Malcolm’s face is genuine this time, repeating back, “I won't be alone. Thanks, Jackson Troy.”

“Amateur.”

That single word becomes the last thing the two friends speak to each other, as both take the last few minutes to inhabit the roles they need to play within the chain link fence that is creeping ever closer. By the time the door slides open the two men show no signs of knowing each other. True to his word JT stays by Malcolm’s side as he is shown to the area for new arrivals, and when JT can remove the cuffs, he can feel the tension in his body dissipate once the metal is no longer touching his wrists. The induction process continues without incident, Malcolm plays the model inmate to perfection. The burgundy sweater and jeans are traded for the standard tan scrubs and white undershirt, and after a quick photo for his ID badge Jonathon Taylor is ready to be introduced to Block Two.

Another guard waves JT over. “Welcome to Fishkill Correctional Burrows, I’m Vernon, the inmate coordinator here. You’ll be working in the same building that…” Vernon squints at the paperwork in his hand, “Taylor will be housed in. Bring him, and I’ll show you the ropes.”

Vernon waits for JT to fetch Malcolm, who is now holding a blanket, pillow and a small toiletries bag. The profiler’s eyes are a little wider than usual, JT is guessing in his excitement over the case he forgot that he would be expected to sleep in a room with a number of other men. Men who will be less than impressed with his daily nightmares. While his back is turned JT seizes the moment to mumble a quick message to Malcolm.

“You won’t be here long enough for your sleeping habits to become an issue. The infirmary has your meds. Breathe.”

Malcolm nods imperceptibly and drops his shoulders with one long exhale. By the time JT spins around to lead Malcolm towards his supervisor a mask of impassivity sits comfortably over the profiler’s face. His head is in the game, and it’s time to follow suit.

After all, they’ve got a killer to catch.


	2. Chapter 2

**Present Day**

It’s 7:55 am when JT wanders into the bare locker room to deposit his duffel. The black guard’s uniform fits snugly against his frame, and he inspects his trousers one more time for any obvious creases before his shift starts. It’s been a while since he’s needed to wear dress pants, and his skills with the iron aren’t what they used to be. After stowing away his change of clothes he reaches for his radio receiver and the heavy belt full of the accoutrements a prison guard needs for the day; baton, keys and handcuffs. He’s into day three of their surveillance operation, and Malcolm was confident he was narrowing the list of potential targets to investigate. 

The morning staff meeting that started at eight to assign guards to stations didn’t really require JT’s attendance, as the warden had organised JT’s working assignments for the sake of the operation. He needed to keep up appearances though, so here he was. He listens with half an ear to the notices and nearly misses when Bright’s cover name is mentioned.

“Inmate Taylor from Block Two was transferred to the Mental Health Unit uphill last night after an incident where he attempted to leave the sleeping quarters, screaming bloody murder the whole time. He’ll be there for an evaluation this morning, so your headcount will be out down by one.”

JT draws on all of his skills as a poker player to keep his face impassive as he absorbs the notice. Sure, Malcolm had looked a little tired yesterday, but the profiler had assured him he was in control and would be fine to see out another night. The guy had obviously stretched the truth at the time, and a part of JT had wanted to believe it so badly he hadn’t followed up.

As soon as the meeting wrapped up JT stepped out into a supply closet to contact Gil. The call was answered before the second ring.

“What is it JT?” The concern in Gil’s tone was evident. There had been no 8 am calls the last two days.

“Bright had an episode last night, they shipped him up to the Mental Health Unit the next building over. I’ve got no eyes on him.”

JT practically feels the puff of air from Gil’s sigh breezing through the phone. “Damn it, kid. I told you this was going to be too much.”

“He said he was okay when I left yesterday, boss.”

“When do we ever take Bright’s word on anything, JT?”

Gil has a point there.

“I can’t ask for an assignment change this morning; can you call the warden and try to get him back?” JT rubs a hand over his face, already exhausted. “He would have been terrified out of his mind last night, I promised him no more handcuffs.”

“Bright knew the risks walking in there.” Gil points out.

“I...should have been there.” Even though a part of JT knows he can’t be there 24/7 to watch out for Bright, it doesn’t diminish the nausea that roils his stomach as he imagines Bright being transferred up the hill. He’d heard stories from the other guards, it wasn’t a place JT wanted the man to be trapped in.

“Don’t beat yourself up JT. Bright’s a smart kid, he’ll survive the morning until we can get him back to you. Leave it to me, I’ll have him back in time to complain about the jello options for lunch. I’ll come down and make sure of it.”

A memory from yesterday’s lunch flashes into JT’s mind; an animated Malcolm chatting the ear off a dazed looking guy while waving around a green jello pot. The memory loses its colour and fades as JT’s focus returns on the here and now.

“Thanks, Gil. Have the warden page me when he’s back.”

“You got it. Stay safe.”

JT ends the call and takes a moment to draw in a deep breath before he re-joins the world outside this little bleach-soaked bubble. Bright has been in stickier situations than this, and the man has a power of persuasion unlike anything JT has seen before. Between Bright’s persuasion and Gil’s authority JT has every confidence that they’ll have Bright back to find another victim to wax lyrical about jello to before the next round is served.

**%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%**

**Three Hours Earlier**

Malcolm doesn’t know what time it is.

Thanks to his night terror episode in the shared dorm Malcolm had ended up with a middle of the night transfer to a solitary cell for the safety of the other inmates. It was a minor miracle that he’d managed to get through the first two nights without one, but Malcolm had only been able to force himself to stay awake for so long. The stress of a regimented and supervised environment had begun to permeate his subconscious, and it was only a matter of time before it manifested in a way that placed him in jeopardy. Dreams of being trapped in the same cell as his father felt all too real, and before he knew what was happening he was on the floor, then he was bolting for the door.

 _Run_.

It’s the only command his body would obey. Primal instinct had taken over. The adrenaline tasted bitter in his mouth as the dorm awoke around him, he was oblivious to their shouts and threats as his base instincts focused on one thing-escaping.

The hands that pulled Malcolm away from the door were rough and unforgiving. The knee that pushed into his back as the handcuffs were secured was just as unyielding, and Malcolm’s lungs fought for every scrap of air as the panic attack continued. He didn’t remember much of the walk to the van, and by the time the guard had completed the short drive to the medium security facility Malcolm had pieced together where he was being taken- the Mental Health Unit. The realisation set off another panic attack, and his march through the stricter facility was nothing but a blur.

Between the nightmare, the manhandling and the relocation to a far more restrictive environment attempting to chase sleep again was useless. The concrete cell had no windows, only a small window in the door for observation. The shutter remained closed except for the sporadic monitoring from a guard (presumably to make sure his brains don’t end up splattered on the wall).

He’s spent the rest of the night (or morning maybe?) pacing for a while, before coming to rest against the back wall. Faces of fellow inmates scroll through his train of thought as potential persons of interest, each being evaluated and discarded as a distraction. He is so engrossed in his brainstorming he almost misses the buzzing of the door as a guard enters. A shiny badge proclaims his name to be ‘Davies’.

The guard is wary as he enters the cramped space. Malcolm isn’t sure why, he’s already sitting against the back wall. It’s not like he can tunnel any further away.

“Okay Taylor, let’s go. Today’s your lucky day.” Davies throws a jacket in his direction, a clear instruction to put it on.

Malcolm is instantly suspicious. “Why do I get to be so lucky today?”

“Don’t play games, you know why.” It’s only then that Malcolm notices the guard is carrying more than just handcuffs. It’s a full set of chains, with four bright circles glinting in the dull prison lights. Malcolm can’t fathom why he’s holding them, that’s not how they transferred him here last night.

“I’m sorry, but I really don’t.” Malcolm keeps his movements slow and exaggerated as he dresses himself with the jacket, not wanting to upset the already on edge guard.

“Paperwork says you’re getting a temporary transfer to testify out west.”

“A transfer? No, that can’t be right.” Malcolm had told JT that he had this in hand just yesterday, he wouldn’t pull him out this quickly. “I only came from Min Sec last night, I should be heading back there. Is Officer Burrows here? Did Lieutenant Arroyo leave a message?”

“Who?”

Oh, this is not good. “I think there’s been a mistake. I’m not testifying in a trial. I should be staying here. If I can speak to the warden he’ll clear all this up.”

“Taylor, I didn’t come in here for an argument. You’re getting transferred. Now.” The guard looks impatient and takes a step towards Malcolm, releasing the chains as in preparation to place them on the diminutive consultant. Malcolm slides along the wall, desperate to maintain the space between them.

“Please, we need to speak to the warden. I need to stay here.” Malcolm protests. He doesn’t want to give up the operation if he doesn’t have to.

The guard is glaring by this point, his face set like granite. “You come here now, or this trip is going to be unpleasant.” He warns as he takes another step, effectively trapping Malcolm in the corner.

“What about why they moved me here in the first place? Shouldn’t I see a doctor first?”

“I don’t decide whether you see a doc or not. I’m just following orders.”

Malcolm’s out of options, so he plays the last card he has. “My name isn’t Johnny Taylor. It’s Malcolm Bright, and I’m here undercover for the NYPD to get information on a murder investigation. I need to stay here. It’s the truth, I promise. Just call the warden.”

Davies stops to consider what he’s just heard. “Of all the stupid things I’ve heard in this place, that’s right up there. I have orders, and I’m following them. It’s time for you to follow them too. Put your hands together. _Now_.” Davies warns. “Don’t make me call for backup.”

The mild panic that had been bubbling away quietly in his chest explodes with full force to all out terror. If he leaves this prison, he loses any ability to contact the team. Davies collects the cuffs in one hand and moves his free hand to the baton on his belt. Malcolm knows all too well that he’ll use the truncheon before he calls for backup. At this moment he doesn’t have a choice. Comply for now, ask for help later.

Pushing away from the wall, Malcolm slowly raises his arms and holds his hands clenched into fists together. He stands silently as the chain belt, hand and ankle cuffs are attached. Satisfied that Malcolm is secured, Davies radios up to the tower. “Davies here, I’ve got Taylor ready for transport. Open main door five.”

Davies escorts him out of the solitary wing, and Malcolm detects the weak daylight as it filters in through the narrow windows in the halls. He’d guess it was early morning. The warden isn’t likely to have arrived yet, which means an audience with him right now is impossible. JT’s shift wasn’t due to start until 8 am, so he couldn’t ask to speak with him either. The panic building in his chest ratchets up another notch, and the gears in his mind race through the rapidly dwindling options to stop this transfer. Davies hands him over to a different guard when they reach the main administration building, to his disappointment it’s another guard he doesn’t recognise. Malcolm is sincerely regretting having to keep the knowledge of his mission to a small circle of people right now.

A new guard means a new set of ears though, so he waits until Davies is out of earshot before he dares to ask for a phone call. He checks the name tag before he starts talking.

“Officer Little, I need to call Lieutenant Gil Arroyo with the NYPD. I’m working for him, this is a huge misunderstanding. I’m not Johnny Taylor, I’m Malcolm Bright, consultant on a murder case. I have his number, you just need to call it for me. Please.” 

Officer Little gives him some wicked side eye as they shuffle down the corridor. “That’s the weirdest thing I’ve heard all week. You got transferred to Mental Health last night, right?” Malcolm watches in dismay as the man dismisses his plea outright. “I checked the paperwork, one Jonathon Taylor is being transferred, word on the street is you're headed to Denver.”

The guard had used his full undercover name, how can this be real? Davies wasn’t joking about the other side of the country. He doesn’t know anybody in Colorado. How would he get himself home from there?! “There must be another Jonathon Taylor in this prison then, because it’s not me.”

Officer Little scoffs. “I’ve heard some desperate things in my time but that has to be in my top five. Your ride is waiting Taylor, pick up the pace.” Little yanks Malcolm’s elbow in an attempt to get him to walk faster. It’s awkward but he manages it. The faster they walk the less time he has to get help.

“Please, just, check the paperwork one more time. It won’t be my ID number, I need to stay here.”

“Enough of this, it’s the end of my shift and I’m tired. I need you in that van before I can clock off, move your ass.”

Nobody will listen. The pair don’t come across anyone else as the rest of the doors are activated remotely and all too quickly, he’s outside the prison doors. There’s a driver and a guard waiting, a large shotgun in the guard’s hands and a bored expression. That changes when Malcolm is marched towards the van. “This is the kid getting the VIP treatment today?” he asks Little.

“Yeah, Johnny Taylor, prepped and ready to go. And I would recommend ear plugs. He got transferred to Mental Health last night and he’s saying some crazy stuff. Think he’s got cold feet about the deal he made, you know how they feel about snitches in Colorado.” Little laughs.

Malcolm’s heart drops at the mention of the word snitch. He knows all too well about that side of the criminal justice system. He’s in big trouble.

Little signs the paperwork and Malcolm is guided into the transfer van. It’s a narrow space, there’s barely enough room to sit with his knees straight out, and the heavily tinted window set above his head height is the only light in the space. He didn’t think there could be a space smaller than solitary for him to occupy, but here it is. Heart jackhammering like crazy, he takes a few steadying breaths as his van guard readies the door to be shut. Little has retreated back into the main building so Malcolm takes one last chance to be heard before he leaves the place where Gil would be able to find him.

“There’s been a mistake, you’ve got the wrong Johnny Taylor. I’m working undercover for the NYPD and I need to speak to the warden. _Please_.” Malcolm hopes his plea is enough. The pain and panic in his eyes are genuine as he waits for an answer.

The guard stares blankly with a face of practiced impassivity.

“Undercover, that’s a new one. The road’s a bit bumpy until we get to the highway, I’d suggest sitting against a wall if you don’t want to get bounced.”

With no other discussion about Malcolm’s request the door is summarily slammed shut. The only sound he can hear is his own rapid-fire breathing as he tries to process what has just happened. This is close to his worst nightmare.

Why won’t anyone believe him?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year everyone! This is the last exposition heavy chapter before I start to have some fun 😇

He should have trusted his gut.

Gil agreed to the undercover operation against his better judgement because of a lack of leads in their case. He had ignored the seed of doubt that lingered in the back of his mind when Malcolm had suggested his proposal, instead he granted his profiler the benefit of the doubt.

Malcolm had assured him he would need a week, maximum, to extract the information from the hired thug that was awaiting trial. JT’s phone call about Malcolm’s sudden transfer was his worst fear confirmed. The case forgotten for the moment, Gil was on the phone to the warden the second he’d hung up on JT. It had taken almost two hours to contact the man, and the stress was downright distracting. The anxiety in his stomach was so acute by this point he felt as if the slightest touch would cause his body to break apart. The warden had assured Gil he would sort it out immediately, but that was an hour ago. Conversations buzzed around him but nothing really registered. He was too lost in his thoughts to notice. A gentle hand presses against his forearm, and he gazes upward to find Dani’s concerned face.

“Go and see Bright, Gil. You’re not worth much to us in this state. Maybe when you see him you can talk to him about calling this whole thing off.” 

Dani was right. He needs to know Malcolm is okay before he can focus on work again.

“Alright.” Gil sighs. “I’ll be a couple of hours; you sure you will be okay to hold the fort while I’m gone?”

A mischievous grin creeps across Dani’s face. “Sure thing Gil. I might even do a little redecorating while I’m at it.”

The huff of laughter that escapes his throat helps to ease some of the tension in his chest. He’s got a great team behind him. Just as Gil arrives at his car in the garage his cell chirps. The area code is from Fishkill.

“Warden Boothby?” Gil doesn’t have time for pleasantries as he fishes the car keys from his pocket.

“Lieutenant! I’ve sent the transfer order to the Mental Health Unit. I’ve not heard back yet, but I am confident your man should be back within the hour.”

Gil sighs in relief. “Thank you, warden, I’m on my way. I’d like to see him.”

“Of course, I’ll leave a message with reception to deliver your man to the visitation room when you arrive. By all accounts, your guy put on quite the performance last night.”

While the warden drones on about the incident report Gil’s foot starts to tap impatiently against the floor. The warden sounds amused by the turn of events, and the anxiety that has accompanied him all morning is swiftly turning into anger.

“I mean, he just would not leave the door! It’s a prison, I don’t-“

“Appreciate the detail warden, but I’d like to get moving. I’m leaving Manhattan now.”

“Roger that, Lieutenant. I’ll make some time to see you this morning, you can update me on the case while you’re here.”

The case. Right. “Let’s just get my guy back first.” He ends the call, not bothering to wait for a reply.

He can get Dani to text him the case particulars while he’s driving upstate. Gil can barely remember the drive to the prison complex, the only sound that permeates his thoughts is the soothing rumbling of his new Mustang.

Walking up to the gates of the prison sets off the queasy feeling in his stomach once again.

The chain link fence squeaks in the breeze as he follows the path towards the visitors building. There are no inmates in the yards outside, giving the whole place an eerie vibe. Gil decides he wants Bright and JT out of here today. The profiler needs to show him some definitive evidence that he’s close to finding their target, as well as proving that his stay in the MHU hasn’t affected him. As much as Gil wants this to succeed, he won’t put his team at risk.

He signs in, requests to see Bright/Taylor and waits at the octagonal table for the profiler to join him. Lost in his thoughts for a moment, he doesn’t pay too much attention to the movement in front of him as Bright is escorted to the chair. When he looks up, he is shocked at what he sees.

It’s not Bright. He has the same colour hair and eyes and is a bit heavier than the man he knows, but it’s definitely not Bright. The inmate’s look of confusion probably mirrors his own.

“Who are you?” Gil demands.

“Johnny Taylor, who are you?” the man replies, instantly defensive.

“ _You’re_ Johnny Taylor? This is a mistake.”

“My name is a mistake? Can’t change it, it’s what I was born with.” Johnny leans back, assessing Gil as he does the same.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t here to see you. Excuse me.” Gil abruptly strides back towards the hallway and flashes his badge at the nearest guard, asking for them to double check the system for another Johnny Taylor.

“The log is only showing me the one Johnny Taylor, sir.”

“How can that be? He’s supposed to be here!” Gil shouts.

“I don’t know sir, I can only go by what’s in the register. Could it be under a full name?”

“Oh, yeah. Try Jonathon Taylor, J-O-N-A-T-H-A-N.” Gil repeats.

The keys click away, but the man’s frown remains. “No, we don’t have a record of anyone here by that name either.”

Gil’s pulse is thumping loudly in his ears by this point as the gravity of what the guard is saying hits him. “I need to see the warden please, it’s official business.”

“Yes sir.” The guard radios an escort for him who walks him to the warden’s office. He’s deep in discussion with what Gil guesses is facilities staff for the prison, so he has no choice but to wait. Gil paces the small antechamber, unable to sit still as his mind races over the possibility of Bright being missing. How can you lose someone in a prison? The decision to allow Bright to do this is looking more and more foolish with every passing second.

Ten minutes later the discussion wraps up. Gil bumps shoulders with the two men, his anxiety so pronounced he can’t even wait for them to leave the office before he’s charging into it.

“Lieutenant Arroyo, I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon. Would you close the door?” Warden Boothby requests.

Gil turns and complies with lightning speed. Not wanting to waste another second, he doesn’t even wait until his body is facing Boothby again before he demands, “Can you tell me how you lose an NYPD undercover agent in a prison?!”

The warden looks confused. “I’m sorry, I’m not following?”

“I went to see Bright this morning and another man was brought to me WITH THE SAME NAME.”

“That’s concerning. Did you want me to call up the full list of inmates to try and sort this out? They might have retrieved him from the wrong cell block.”

“I’ve already done that in the visiting area, the staff on the computer says there isn’t another Johnny Taylor in the entire prison to mix him up with.”

“That can’t be right, let me have a look myself.” The warden searches the database himself to confirm what Gil already knows. “Where could he be?”

“That’s what I’m asking _you_.” Gil huffs. A realisation hits him squarely in the chest, and he reels back as if struck. “What if your financial investigation has something to do with this?”

“Wait…do you think-“

“What if they knew he was here to expose their operation, and they’ve made him disappear?”

The warden looks skeptical. “Well that would be very difficult to do, you’d need to alter several systems to do it.”

“I think the ship has sailed on whether it’s possible or not. I need you to audit your software and find out who might have made him disappear.”

Warden Boothby nods. “Understood, I’ll also ask for a formal head count to confirm he’s not here.”

“Thank you. Call me if you find anything.”

“Absolutely.”

“Oh, and warden?”

“Mmmhmm?” he hums as his attention has drifted back to his computer.

“Not a word of this to anyone. I’ll be damned if someone blurting this out leaves me with a dead profiler.” The blood in Gil’s veins turns to ice as he realises that outcome might be closer than he had ever thought possible.

Bright has to be out there somewhere. Gil will stop at nothing to find him and bring him home.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

_“We’ve arrived in Denver, Colorado where the temperature is a brisk 40 degrees. Make sure you rug up, and drive safe on the roads out there.”_

The flight had passed without incident. Malcolm followed the marshal’s instructions and didn’t try to alert anyone to his predicament. He had avoided the stewards gaze as they handed out the mid flight refreshments, accepting his water single handedly with a tiny nod of his head. The marshal had unlocked the cuff on one of his hands for that brief moment, which saved him the humiliation of having to drink through a straw on the tray table.

Unlike his first walk through a busy airport, Malcolm didn’t try to catch anyone’s attention this time. After three hours on a flight he was one hundred percent spiralling and couldn’t find a way out of his thoughts. Malcolm shuffled through the large space on autopilot, only waking from his stupor when the cold Denver air whipped him in the face as they left the warm confines of the terminal. He was immediately glad for the prison issued jacket that managed to keep some of the cold out. Snowflakes whirled chaotically through the air and mirrored the feelings that were churning inside him. He was shepherded to an armoured van, this one had windows which was a pleasant surprise. In all his travels with the FBI they had never taken him to Denver before. Under normal circumstances he would have marvelled at the mountains and the rugged beauty of the city, but under the cloud of his current circumstances, he can’t quite appreciate the view as much as he usually would.

The ride to the new prison was longer than the trip from the one in New York. He had no idea of the exact amount of time that had passed, but tension in his body from bracing against small slides on the icy roads was starting to make his entire body ache. When the van passes a sign announcing their imminent arrival in Canon City his exhausted body is almost looking forward to a bed to lay on with nothing to do. Mountains sheer cliff faces loom into view, and Malcolm is able to make out a cream building nestled amongst the harsh rocks. Colorado Territorial Correctional Facility is waiting for him, and as the van passes through the electrified fence the ball of dread in Malcolm's stomach grows exponentially.

He was in foreign territory.

The admission process was relatively the same as it had been in New York, only this time the anxiety of the situation was making him feel light headed. Malcolm found it difficult to concentrate on the instructions that were being issued, which made the guards frustrated as they repeat themselves constantly. It was a relief when they finally unlocked the shackles around his wrists and ankles, while he may be used to restraints for sleep, to be limited while he was awake takes him back to that basement with Watkins. The guards signalled him to change out of his tan New York issued prison scrubs for a yellow Colorado set, and he had to forfeit his jacket while no replacement was provided.

Malcolm’s escort is unsympathetic when Malcolm asks to keep it. “Nobody else has one of those, do you think that anyone would let you keep that after five minutes here? Trust me, I’m doin’ you a favor.”

“What do I wear if I get cold?”

“You’ll manage like everyone else.”

The joys of the federal prison system. 

Wide eyes drink in every detail as he is led to the cell block Malcolm has been assigned to. On the surface the smooth concrete, thick doors and metal bars aren't that different to the New York prison he'd been in. The lack of a safety net makes the place feel colder, the shadows more sinister. He tried to regulate his breathing and focus on deep breaths rather than shallow gasps. It wasn't working. The guard was explaining the rules and routine of the place, but the words were jumbled and muted over his jackhammering heart.

Malcolm realises towards the end of his walk that the anxiety he was feeling could be the beginnings of a benzo withdrawal. In the panic this morning he'd forgotten to ask for his meds. This was going to be a huge problem. 

"I need to see a doctor." Malcolm blurts out. 

"Inmates see the doctors if we decide you need it. You look fine." The guard dismisses. 

"I'm not. I'm about to get very sick and will need help." 

The guard remains skeptical. "What is it exactly you need help with?"

"Medications. I don't think it's in my file. Please, just let me talk to a doctor." 

"So you're not sick yet. It'll wait. Here we are, home sweet home. _Open 24_." He barks into his shoulder mic.

A loud buzzing emanates from the door in front of him and swings open to a cell with a single cot. A thin foam mattress tops the wire frame, and it's immediately clear that it won’t be sturdy enough to hold him and his night terrors. It looks like sleep is off the cards while he's here. 

"Sit tight, you'll get called for exercise time in a few hours." Is the guard’s final instruction before the steel door slams shut and locks with a finality that causes Malcolm to hyperventilate. In a matter of hours his life has collapsed into the size of this 12x7 ft cell. Cold, bare, and utterly alone. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> here's where things start to get fun :o) 
> 
> Just a note that we're at the end of the flashbacks, and we're back to chronological order from here.

**Fishkill Correctional-New York**

After leaving Boothby’s office Gil retrieves his phone from his pocket and stares blankly at it. He’s dealt with missing person’s cases before, but this isn’t your traditional disappearance. Cameras and logs should pick him up between either facility, it’s not unreasonable to expect Malcolm will be found before the day is out.

He stops in his tracks as he remembers that JT is on the grounds somewhere, expecting Malcolm to be escorted back in at any moment. Gil spins back to the warden’s office.

“Can you page Detective Tarmel to meet me? I want him to know what’s going on.”

Warden Boothby pulls his eyebrows together. “We’re very short on guards in Block Two today, we had a couple of people call in sick. You’ll have to wait for his lunch break which is in…” the warden glances at the clock on the wall, “twenty minutes.” I’ll have someone escort you to the break room, and you can wait in there.”

Everything about this day is getting worse and worse. “I’d appreciate that,” is all Gil can manage to say without ripping the guy’s head off. It takes another anxious five minutes for his guard escort to arrive, and about the same amount of time to walk to the break room. The Lieutenant’s escort guides him into the pokey lunch area and issues explicit instructions not to leave the room. Once he’s left alone Gil whips out his phone to call Dani about the morning’s developments, but the building has zero service. The cinder block walls are acting as an exceptional signal blocker. Gil mutters a string of curses under his breath before collapsing into a lumpy couch situated against the wall.

The sparsely decorated room has nothing to distract from his fury and anxiety about what has happened this morning, so he turns his interest to picking off pieces of vinyl from the well-worn cushions he’s sitting on. A laugh reverberates down the corridor, and curiosity wins out over staying put for a lack of anything else to do. The push up from the low couch elicits a grunt from Gil as his knees creak from the action, and as he exits back into the hallway the confident voice replies once again.

“We’re good, nobody’s raised any flags yet.”

The only time that sentence doesn’t sound suspect is at an Olympic ceremony. Gil edges towards the door, hoping to catch more of the conversation. The cadence of the conversation rises and falls, then he hears a word he doesn’t expect: Taylor.

“Taylor had to be a false identity. I caught a break, you tell Griffin he’s no longer a threat to Fishkill.”

Gil’s stomach drops to the floor as he pieces together what he’s just heard. This person just admitted over the phone to doing something to Bright. Gil’s suspicions were correct, this has gone horribly wrong. Although the urge to confront the man is strong Gil knows his approach will have more impact with the support of someone from the prison at his side, and a glance at his watch informs him that JT’s arrival is imminent. As the conversation in the room drifts to another topic Gil returns to the staff room and nervously watches the door for any sign the man next door is leaving, as well as checking for JT’s broad frame in the hallway. Three minutes later finds JT arriving at the staff room door, along with several other guards who are starting their lunch break. Gil prevents JT’s entry into the room that now smells of coffee and reheated lasagne, pushing him back out into the corridor. JT doesn’t waste time with greetings.

“We just did a head count and Bright’s not back on the block yet, where is he?”

Gil throws a thumb over his shoulder. “The warden can’t find him in the system, he’ll do another head count after lunch but I don’t think it will do much good. There’s a guy in the office next door that mentioned Bright’s alias on a call. Can you check if you know the guy?”

JT leans over to follow the wayward thumb’s trajectory, his brows knitting together when his eyes lock on the person working in the room. “That’s Vernon, the inmate coordinator. Nice enough guy. You said he mentioned Bright?”

“He suspected Taylor was a false name, and assured whoever was on the phone that he’s no longer a problem for Fishkill. My gut is telling me this guy’s involved.”

“Alright, let’s go find out then” JT swings around to the open office, knocking gently on the door jam.

“Hey, Vernon, how’s it going?”

Vernon spins around in his chair, his face breaking into a smile at the sight of JT. “Burrows, how’s it going? Who’s your friend?”

“This is Gil from the NYPD. He’s here looking for an inmate that’s gone missing from my block. Johnny Taylor?”

“Oh, yeah. I heard he got transferred up the hill last night, might be there for a while.”

“Hmm. See, the thing is, my friend overheard you talking about fixing Taylor, and he just wants to check what you meant. Just in case you know something relevant to the case.” The low timbre of the detective’s voice makes his request sound entirely reasonable, but there’s no mistaking the pressure in the gaze aimed at Vernon.

Vernon laughs off the request. “I think your friend here is a little confused. I wasn’t talking about any Taylor. Maybe you should take your search up with Warden Boothby.” The guard spins his chair back to his computer, assuming the conversation is complete.

Gil has other ideas.

“Say JT, what’s Vernon’s occupation here?” Gil asks innocently.

“Didn’t you hear what I just said? You’re mistaken, just like you are with Michael’s name. If you’re the best the NYPD has got, then this missing prisoner of yours is up shit creek without a paddle.”

“Vernon here is the inmate coordinator, boss.” JT replies. At the mention of the word ‘boss’ the coordinator stops typing and raises his head.

Gil continues his train of thought. “So your new friend here would have access to all sorts of records, schedules, things like that.”

“I’d say he’d have access to almost anything inmate related.”

“Interesting.” Gil notes, when a breathy “Lieutenant!” being wheezed a little further down the corridor attracts his attention. It’s Warden Boothby’s assistant, running towards him with a message hastily scrawled on a notepad page. 

_ Head count complete. Taylor was not located. Have Tarmel escort you to my office before you leave.” _

If Gil had anything in his stomach it would have come back up there and then. Bright’s really missing. He’s been swept up into something far bigger than their murder investigation, and nobody except the man in front of him knows where he’s gone. Gil takes a deep breath to calm the nausea that threatens to overpower his stomach, his facial features rearranging themselves into a terse expression. If he has any chance of finding Bright he can’t mess this up. 

“We’ve just had confirmation that the inmate is not in the Fishkill grounds right now. Give it up.” The smirk on Vernon’s face indicates he is less than persuaded. “I know what I heard. Are you going to make me get a warrant for your phone records? Any other numbers in there the NYPD might be interested in?”

The grin remains plastered on Vernon’s face but the colour in it drains away at the mention of a warrant. Bingo.

“Well JT, seems like we’ve got a judge to go call. Thanks for all your help Vernon.” Gil taps JT gently on the elbow as a signal to leave, and when they’re out of sight Gil hangs back to see if Vernon is stupid enough to make a mistake. The promise emanating from the office is low but audible,

_ “You won’t find him. I’ll make sure of that.” _

The chase is on.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

**Colorado Territory Correctional Facility-Canon City**

In the late afternoon the door to Malcolm’s cell opens, and when he takes a look outside, he finds all the doors in the wing he’s housed in are ajar. Inmates are leaving their cells and standing against the wall next to them, a clearly practiced routine. Malcolm follows suit, subtly glancing around at the men shouting around him. A minute later there’s an unintelligible shout from a guard somewhere and the men begin to move as one to the left of the shared space, forming a line at the end of the hallway. Malcolm keeps pace with the person in front of him, listening out for any intel that will help him fit in. The absence of anyone discussing food infers that they’re headed for some type of recreation time.

A spark of an idea forms in his mind.

Recreation time could facilitate an opportunity for him to receive an injury. An injury which will grant him a trip to the infirmary. If he can get to the infirmary he can talk to a doctor and this nightmare will be over. All he has to do is study these men and find someone willing to hurt him, but not kill him.

It’s a really bad plan, but it’s all he’s got.

Buoyed by his newfound sense of purpose, he ignores the jeers aimed in his direction, instead opting to focus on the power dynamics on display from the other inmates as they reach the rec area.

The room is a big gymnasium, bright lights overhead illuminating the space with the intensity of a plasma gun. There is nowhere to hide in here. Two padded half-court basketball hoops standing at each end of the room. A rack to the side holds the balls, and there are several pieces of free weight benches and bars bolted to the floor on one side. The men quickly split up into well-established groups, leaving Malcolm to himself.

That’s not to say that he’s invisible. His arrival causes a pique of curiosity among the other men, and as Malcolm scans the space, he finds himself on the receiving end of everything from furtive glances to outright ogling. Malcolm schools his expression to be as neutral as possible, projecting an aura of ‘not interested’. The last thing he needs is to be labelled as a twink, or an easy mark. That might change if he finds the right person to deliver him to the infirmary though. 

Malcolm decides this particular rec session will only be about sizing up potential allies, and protecting himself. A part of him wouldn’t mind attempting some yoga, but It’s too early to turn his back on so many people he hasn’t finished profiling. He has yet to figure out the guard’s surveillance routine, nor has he decided who he should target. While he wants an injury, it needs to be from someone who won’t tilt too far towards permanent damage

A trio of men catch his eye. Two men sandwich another one about two inches taller than Malcolm and appear to be urging him to do something. The head nods in his direction are an obvious tell that they are talking about him, most likely inmates low on the power scale and looking to climb the ranks. They seem to be Malcolm’s best bet to be injured, but not critically so.

As the group saunter their way over towards Malcolm, he remains relaxed against the wall.

“You’re new?” Middle offers a greeting.

“Appears so.”

“You from around here?”

The awkward attempt at small talk doesn’t quite manage to mask the man’s nerves. He’s not entirely on board with what his friends want to do. Malcolm might have to rope Left or Right into hurting him instead. For now, he plays along. “No, I’m here on a holiday of sorts.”

“Holiday, huh?”

“Yeah, taking a break from the coast, you know?”

“Hm…” Middle is not practiced in the art of small-talk-before-fighting.

Malcolm takes the lead, to help the guy out a bit. “I’m Mal- I mean, I’m Jonathon. Any of you have names?”

The man on the left with a number one haircut points his thumb towards his chest. “Buzz,” is all he says before the thumb jerks towards the friend next to him, “Lloyd, and Rosco.”

“Nice to meet you all. Now I assume you came over here to hurt me, am I right?”

Lloyd winces as their plan is exposed, Rosco nudges his shoulder to keep him on track. “Maybe.”

“It’s fine, I get it. You need to pick on me to help your own status in here, totally normal. Just do me a favor. I need it to be bad enough to get to the infirmary, but not life threatening. Can you do that?”

The three men exchange confused glances between one another. “You want him to do what now?” Buzz asks.

“I need to speak to a doctor, and the doctors are in the infirmary.” Malcolm clarifies to the bewildered group. “How are you going to do it? Shiv? Or just punching? I’m fine with either.”

Lloyd leans over to Rosco and mumbles “Somethin’ about this ain’t right. The guy’s way too calm.”

“Who the hell wants to be shivved?” Buzz adds. The three men share the same look of confusion, and Malcolm senses he’s about to lose his best chance at a trip to the infirmary.

“Look, I’ll make it easy for you. I am absolutely certain in about five minutes the guards are going to give up any ruse of supervision. I’ll give you the signal, then you can punch me. Or whatever. Remember. It just needs to be enough to get me to a doctor.” A part of Malcolm finds it incredibly ironic that he is asking to be stabbed mere months after Watkins sliced him open, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Malcolm raises his eyebrows and nods to emphasise his willingness to be hurt, while glancing around to make sure the discussion with his new friends isn’t raising any suspicions. They’re safe for now.

Lloyd is channelling a meerkat by now, his head spinning left and right as a paranoia builds inside of him. “You didn’t even remember what your name was. Are you some sort of cop or something?”

Malcolm’s heart rate spikes at the utterance of the word ‘cop’. As a flush threatens to bloom in his cheeks, he deflects the query with a guffaw. “There’s no good way to answer a question like that. You won’t believe me either way. But if you need to hear it then no, I am not a cop. I’m just a guy who wants to see a doctor. Can you help me out?”

Rosco is shaking his head now, seemingly more certain in his mind. “There’s something about you, I don’t like it. You’re trying to get Lloyd charged with somethin’. I can tell.” The man taps his finger against his temple with a tight mouth. Malcolm’s words are having the opposite effect he had intended.

It hadn’t been this hard at Fishkill. 

“I promise you I’m not a cop. I just need someone to listen to me today. Can you do that?” Malcolm’s exhaustion fails to keep the exasperation out of his voice, and the reaction from the men reveals to him that it was the wrong thing to say.

Lloyd silently confers with Buzz and Rosco before announcing his decision. “Nah, I think we’ll take a pass today, I ain’t that desperate. Might check in tomorrow though.”

“Wait, no…” Malcolm pleads, but it’s too late. The three men retreat back towards the far wall, leaving Malcolm alone again.

_ Tomorrow is too far away. _ Malcolm calls out in his head. 

His best chance at seeing a doctor just shuffled away, his way with words has failed him yet again.

“TWENTY MINUTES!” The guard’s booming voice echoes off the walls, giving Malcolm a little more time to come up with a plan B. Joining the basketball game was out, the two crews playing three-a-side were close knit and had dominated the use of the courts the whole time they’d been in the gym. The other equipment was all bolted down, and Malcolm figured a deliberate muscle sprain wasn’t going to cut it as a serious enough injury. Two groups huddled around the benches had staked out their territory and defended it with more aggression than was really necessary, to provoke either group would probably end with a concussion. He needed to keep his head clear.

By this stage a few of inmates who were riding solo in the group had started to introduce themselves, two even going so far as reaching out to his arm and squeezing, literally sizing him up for their own enjoyment. The desire to fuck him is plain, their hunger barely concealed behind slimy smiles.

Malcolm twists out of their grip and keeps his answers brief and to the point, making it clear he wasn’t around to make friends right now. Coming to the realisation that he’s run out of time to execute a Plan B after the third introduction of the hour, Malcolm takes a turn around the gym for something else to do. Too soon the guard is calling them to line up again, and the orderly procession of yellow scrubs marches back to the wing without incident.

Curious about what happens now (having no clue due to his daze when he arrived) Malcolm turns back to the man behind him and asks what comes next. The man laughs before answering, 

“You stare at the fucking walls until dinner.”

Each cell is indistinguishable on the walk back, and the only way Malcolm manages to identify his cell from the others is that the line stops in front of him. He re-enters the cold concrete room and instinctively rubs his hands over his upper arms, trying to generate some warmth. It’s not enough. The door swings shut from behind, and the cacophony of metal doors slamming together in sync with each other startles him.

_ Deep breaths. You can do this. _

With the cold starting to chill his bones Malcolm’s mind wanders wistfully back to the morning when he had his prison issued jacket, a small comfort that his situation now denies him. He won’t let his memory stray too far from today, won’t let his mind cast back to thoughts of central heating and the warm wool knit sweaters waiting for him at home. Those memories stir up feelings of unbridled panic and despair, and he can’t afford to be lost to a pit of misery right now. Malcolm shakes his head to clear the image from his mind, and brings his focus back to today. He can get through this. Like his fellow inmates.

One minute at time. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun with this chapter, i hope you enjoy it too! We're about halfway through this little ordeal of Malcolm's, the next chapter is one you won't want to miss.

**Colorado Territorial Correctional Facility- Midnight**

Malcolm's eyelids tingle with exhaustion, but he refuses to submit. His body is aching for rest, but he knows that if he manages to fall asleep here the night terrors  _ will  _ come, and he can’t imagine the guards will treat him particularly well if he screams the place down. Resigned, he leans against the cement wall, elbows braced against his knees and tries to think of a way out. After hours of sorting and discarding plans he starts to lose the fight against sleep, his head follows the downward trajectory of his eyelids when he fails to keep them open for the last time. 

Mercifully he doesn't dream. 

The buzzing of the door jolts him out of his slumber and a guard stands at the ready with a set of cuffs. 

"Wakey wakey Taylor, the prosecutors are here." 

"Huh?" Is all Malcolm can think to say. 

"Prosecutors from the DPP's office. The sole reason we’re babysitting you right now.."

“I’m not talking to any prosecutors. I want to see a doctor.” Malcolm insists.

“You’re not in a position to demand anything. Now stand up.”

Too tired to press his luck again, Malcolm slowly shuffles off the cot and stands beside it, unsure of what will happen next. He’s asked to turn around with his hands behind his back, and he does so with a detached malaise that comes from growing accustomed to having zero autonomy. As he’s guided through the empty halls the shouts from the inmates are thankfully muted through the solid steel doors. It’s a small blessing as his head starts to feel woozy from standing upright, and Malcolm is sure he can feel a fever starting to settle in. As he is moved towards the visitors rooms another guard takes in Malcolm’s appearance, and judging by the man’s reaction he’s definitely looked better.

“Jesus Connor, what did you do to him? The guy looks half a heartbeat away from passing out. Are you on drugs? How did you get drugs in here?” His look changes from one of disgust to suspicion.

“I’m not on drugs, I’m  _ off _ them. That’s the problem.” Malcolm grunts.

“Ah, a junkie hey? Should’ve known. Take him to room six, DPP will be here in a few. They’re gonna be pissed when they see the state of you.”

Malcolm couldn’t care less what they think he looks like. He just needs one of them to give him a phone.

Connor seats Malcolm on a chair and fastens his wrists to a chain in the centre of the table. Stuck with nowhere to go, Malcolm rests his head on his hands, breathing deeply as he tries in vain to stop the world from spinning. There’s water in a jug located on the table, he would drink some if not for the roiling sea that is currently masquerading as his stomach. This meeting is all that matters. Malcolm is sure that one of the people coming today must have met the other Taylor before. He just has to hold on a little longer.

Time slows to a crawl as he focuses on his breathing, desperate to keep the nausea at bay. In and out. In and out. His mind is dulled with exhaustion, the fog descending over his thoughts is almost visible in his mind’s eye. Drifting into the fog seems so easy at this point.

_ “I must say, my boy, yellow really isn’t your color.” _

Malcolm groans at his brain’s attempt to create some company.

“I do not need this right now, I do not need  _ you _ .”

_ “Nonsense Malcolm, if there’s anyone in your life that has experience with being incarcerated it’s me.” _

His father sits across from him at the table, leaning back as if lounging by a hotel pool.  _ “You’re in quite the situation son. You need a plan.” _

“I have a plan. These lawyers I’m about to meet will realise they’ve got the wrong person and I’ll be out of here by lunchtime.”

_ “And how’s that plan worked for you so far, hmm?” _

The loud buzzing from the door as it unlocks pulls him away from the soupy mess that is his consciousness.

Three smartly dressed lawyers file into the small room and start piling large lever arch files onto the table. An older man in his fifties directs the two younger associates to the relevant documents he wants to start with, all the while completely ignoring Malcolm’s presence on the opposite side of the table.

Malcolm watches them all with tired eyes, attempting to determine which person he should appeal to the most. When the trio are settled and finally ready to start talking to him Malcolm is no closer to solving that particular puzzle. The man in charge is still looking down at his notes as he starts his introduction.

“Hello, Mr Taylor, my name is Graham Fuller and I am the lead prosecutor on this particular case. We’re here to go over your witness testimony for the upcoming trial of Mr Xiao taking place the day after next. We’ve had word from your attorney’s office that your representative had car trouble this morning, but is on his way. We’re just going to set up while we wait, okay?” The lawyer finally looks up, and Malcolm stares intently at the man, waiting for the realisation that they’ve got the wrong man to sink in.

Rustling papers is the only sound in the room as Malcolm’s stare grows in intensity. He eyeballs each and every one of them, daring them to speak first. Their expressions shift from neutral to uncomfortable in the silence.

“Mr Taylor, are you okay with us getting a start without your counsel present? We won’t start without your say so.” 

This is ridiculous. “I don’t care if you start anything. Do you even know that you've got the wrong person? Have none of you met Johnny Taylor before?” Malcolm questions.

The trio glance awkwardly between themselves before a younger associate answers. “Our colleagues at the SDNY US Attorney’s office coordinated your proffer sessions.”

“Uh huh, and was there video at these proffer sessions?” Malcolm’s voice drips with sarcasm. “Have you got a mugshot of Taylor in those files of yours? Either of those things will show you that you’re talking to a completely different person right now.”

“You’re telling us that we’re…talking to someone whose name isn’t Johnny Taylor?” the female lawyer asks slowly, the words taking longer than usual to form as she processes what Malcolm is telling them. The lawyers don’t even attempt to conceal their confusion.

Malcolm turns his head towards her. “Yes. Yes, you are. My name is Malcolm Bright, and I was working with the NYPD undercover at Fishkill Correctional Facility on a murder investigation before i got sent here. The pseudonym my team came up with is the same as this Taylor person, and I’ve been transferred here by accident. If you can just give me five minutes and a phone, I can straighten this whole thing out.”

The second associate flips through one of the many files and hefts the file across to his colleagues. They study a photo of some sort, Malcolm’s features, then back to the photo. They mumble softly between themselves, and for a split-second Malcolm believes he’s finally about to get help.

“You say your name is Malcolm Bright?” Fuller repeats.

“Yes.” Malcolm breathes, relieved. “and if you give me a phone, I can contact the Lieutenant I work for. Gil Arroyo at the 16 th precinct.”

“So, you’re not a finance broker who operated an illegal property laundering syndicate for the 14K triad? You’re claiming that you’re… an undercover agent?

“Yes, yes!” Malcolm replies, with a hint of impatience. He points to the file. “That’s a photo of the guy, right? I’m sure he looks nothing like me!” 

“You don’t look well Mr Taylor.” Fuller observes, casting a worried glance at his associates.

“I told you, it’s Bright! Can you show me the picture?” He stretches out his arms across the table chains rattling against the laminate surface. Fuller pulls the file out of his reach for a moment, deciding what to do next. Malcolm fails to avoid having the frustration show on his face. Fuller decides to flip the file up, displaying the photo at an angle where Malcolm can see it. 

What he sees shocks him.

A man with the same pale complexion, blue eyes, chin shape and five o clock shadow stares back at him. His hair is shorter and his face is a little rounder than his, but one could assume he lost weight in prison. Malcolm can see the similarity between this man and himself. His job just got a lot harder.

“Well, we do share some features. I’ll give you that, but I am  _ not _ Johnny Taylor. I am Malcolm Bright, consultant for the NYPD and I want to get out of here now.” The nausea returns in full force, and now it has a thumping headache to keep it company. He grabs the jug of water and gulps greedily, hoping his stomach won’t just send it back up in a minute. 

“You alright there?” The female associate asks.

Malcolm realises he’s so out of it he hasn’t even caught her name. “Uh no, not even close. I’m two days into a withdrawal from my many anxiety and insomnia medications and I really just want to go home. Could one of you  _ please _ let me borrow your phone?”

The lawyers share a look. “I think we’re just going to step out into the hall for a second, see if your attorney is any closer. We’ll be back Mr Taylor.” Three chairs scrape on the concrete floor as they shuffle out of the room.

“It’s not Taylor, it’s BRIGHT!” Malcolm shouts after them.

His exhaustion returns full force once the door is closed. The hope that they might let him call Gil is a small one, but he can’t give up on it yet. They might even call Gil themselves. He’d given them enough information to contact the precinct without him making the call. He returns his head to his hands while he waits, for once wishing sleep would claim him. His skin is burning with the withdrawal fever, and he’s all too aware of the bright lights in the room he can’t escape from. The only saving grace is that the room is too bright for his mind to draw any parallels between the last time he was bolted down to anything and now.

“ _ Amazing work there son, just exceptional. They are eating out of the palm of your hand. I was convinced.” _

Malcolm doesn’t bother to respond to his father this time, lest one of the lawyers opens the door and discovers him talking to himself. He places his head on top of his hands, wishing his father away through closed eyelids.

The lawyers are taking too long to return. Under normal circumstances Malcolm would probably be worried, but he can barely hold himself together right now. The expected panic that would have consumed him as late as last night doesn’t manifest, instead the space is filled with slow, tired breathing. Finally, the door opens and his visitors file back in. Three have now become four, it appears his counsel arrived in the middle of the prosecutor’s discussion. The short bald man is sweating almost as much as Malcolm is, and concern clouds his face.

Chairs are moved around to make room for the defence counsel on his side of the table, and introductions are made, yet Malcolm keeps his eyes trained only on Fuller. The lead prosecutor is holding his phone loosely in his hand, and Malcolm eyes it hungrily. Fuller notices Malcolm’s expression and pulls the phone closer to his body.

That’s not a good sign.

“Mr Taylor, we’re going to try this one more time. Can you help us?” Fuller speaks slowly, as one would with a toddler in the middle of a tantrum. Malcolm’s heart drops as he realises they’ve used the other man’s name, and not his. They don’t believe him.

“I can’t help you. The man that can is in NEW YORK.” Malcolm emphasises. The two associates share a troubled look. He’s losing his shot to get out of here. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m sure this case is important and I don’t want to mess it up for you. I haven’t slept or had my normal meds in days, and I’m just really tired of nobody believing who I am. I thought somebody would have listened to me by now. I mean, who would make up a story about being an undercover agent?!” Malcolm frames the last question with a level of incredulity that doesn’t quite convey the sense of calm he was aiming for. The prosecution and defence lawyers share a look together and Fuller nods at the foppish man beside Malcolm. Having missed his real name Malcolm settles on Dolt as a name.

Dolt turns towards Malcolm with an apologetic look and a slow, soothing voice. “Okay Taylor, here’s what we’re going to do. I’ve had a discussion with DPP and we’ve reached an agreement. There’s obviously something going on here, and we’re concerned you’re in the wrong place to get that help.”

“Yes, there is, thank you!” The last few words take a moment for Malcolm to absorb them. “Wait, what?”

“A prison like this doesn’t have the facilities to deal with whatever is happening here. We’ve agreed to transfer you to a hospital for an assessment.”

Malcolm’s stomach plummets through the floor into the earth’s mantle. “No. NoNoNoNoNo. I don’t need an assessment, I need a  _ phone _ . Yours is right there-” Malcolm reaches with the cuffs towards Fuller’s phone, his desperation palpable. Fuller pulls back suddenly, panic flashing in his eyes at what he perceives is a threat.

They’re not going to help him. The laughter bubbles out of him before he can stop it. His words have failed him once again, and now his worst nightmare is coming true. And it’s not even because of who he really is. “Why would anyone help me? You only care about your precious case. Well, if you don’t do anything it’s going to go down in flames because I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT IT.”

“I think we’re done here. We’re going to see if that transport is ready.” The prosecutors collect their briefs and begin to filter out of the room in a single file.

“Yeah, you do that. And while you’re at it CALL GIL ARROYO!” Malcolm shouts. They don’t turn back before the door clicks. Alone with Dolt, Malcolm rounds on him as he takes a kerchief out of his pocket and dabs his shiny forehead.

“You’re my lawyer, right? I need you to give me your phone. Let me call my boss, straighten this whole thing out.”

Dolt laughs nervously, but makes no move to retrieve his phone. “I’ve spoken with the New York office and they agree this is the best option for you at the moment. If you’re found to be obstructing a case that you agreed to testify for it could put your plea deal in jeopardy. You don’t look so hot, if we went ahead with the court testimony it could prove disastrous for your credibility. A transfer to the hospital gives us a bit of room to breathe.”

“If you’d give me your phone none of this would be necessary, because you’d know that I am telling the truth!”

The lawyer shifts nervously for a moment, before standing and buttoning his jacket. “We’ve made a decision that’s in your long-term best interests, Mr Taylor. We’ll wait for the assessment from the hospital before moving forward. I’ll be in touch.” He strides to the door and opens it without a backward glance. 

Alone once again he realises the proper response to his situation should be anger, panic, and desperation. All that he feels instead is a hollow numbness in his chest, and the pounding in his head. The ocean roars in his ears and Malcolm shuts his eyes, hoping to be carried away by the sound to somewhere far more tranquil.

The next time the door opens it’s a guard with a set of keys and a chain belt. Malcolm says nothing as he’s led back to the same van that transported him here yesterday.

Fuller and Dolt happen to be loitering at the entrance, chatting somberly as they await Malcolm to join them. Fuller stops him before he’s guided into the vehicle. “I’m sorry this has happened Mr Taylor, but we’ll get you the help you need.”

For the first time in his life Malcolm wishes that telekinesis was a real thing, he’d throw something at this asshat’s head if he could. He settles for a glare that would wither flowers with its intensity.

“Fuck you.” It’s all he can think of to say.

The prosecutor’s lips curve downwards into a frown, his eyes filled with pity. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am aware that what I've written is extremely unlikely to happen, but it’s fic so I'm hoping you'll just roll with it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains scenes in a psychiatric facility. If this is potentially a triggering subject for you please take care while reading.  
> That said, it was one of my favourite scenes to write in this whole thing, I hope you enjoy it.

When Gil arrives at Fishkill for the third time in two days, he makes sure he arrives before the office opens. The weather matches his mood; dark clouds roll across the sky and a distant rumble approaches the prison complex.

After the warden’s apathetic display yesterday Gil has decided for his own career safety that it will be best to see Boothby only if his conversation with Taylor yields nothing. The second the clock ticks over to 10AM he is through that door, NYPD badge on display to smooth his way through reception.

The visitor’s room is empty when Gil and another couple enter the space as the first guests of the day. The two women whisper quietly between themselves as they wait, and Gil selects a table at the opposite end of the room to them. He’s only waiting a few minutes before Johnson Taylor is escorted into the room. The inmate realises through a process of elimination who he’s been summoned to talk to and his relaxed body language changes instantly.

Taylor’s annoyance is palpable. “Did these idiots grab the wrong guy again?” is all he says by way of a greeting.

“No, Johnson, I wanted to talk to you today. I’m hoping you might have some information related to a different case of mine.”

The man’s bulky frame rocks backwards slightly, his gaze incredulous. “Unbelievable. I give you guys everything on a silver platter and it still isn’t enough! What more could you possibly want?!”

Gil connects the outburst with the redacted files the US attorney’s office is currently blocking. Taylor assumes that Gil is from the same office, and the Lieutenant doesn’t bother to correct him. It could lead to more information than the feds are willing to give up. Keeping his face neutral, Gil replies, “Your information was very helpful, I’m hoping to get a few more details from you.”

Taylor shakes his head emphatically. “No. No more details. I’m waiting on a call from my attorney and we’re gonna rain down a whole pile of shit on your office. You promised me a transfer to Denver to testify and then some hack in the office finds me yesterday and tells me my transfer is cancelled? That’s some dirty shit right there.”

A loud crack thunders overhead, and everyone in the room ducks out of instinct from the sudden boom. The rain announces its arrival next, and the rattle of water hitting the tin roof increases the noise in the room five-fold.

Gil’s pulse is racing, not only from the sudden noise but also from the mention of a transfer. He’s also sure there’s a non-zero chance that the Fishkill employee was Vernon. He sucks in a slow breath through his nose, keeping his voice as level as possible now that he’s almost shouting over the rain. “And what did this hack from Fishkill tell you exactly?”

“That flights to Denver got cancelled because of weather. They’re going to do a video link instead. I was promised a trip home, I got family out there and they can’t afford to make the trip out here.”

The second mention of Denver connects another thread for Gil. Vernon had mentioned a colleague ‘out west’ who had helped make Bright disappear. The sudden cancellation of the real Johnny Taylor’s travel plans is too much of a coincidence, especially as the news was delivered by Vernon. Gil feels lighter than he did just moments earlier as he realises they now have a tangible lead.

“I’m very sorry about that Mr Taylor, I’ll look into it when I get back to the office. Thank you for your time.” Gil makes a speedy exit towards the gate, eager to catch up JT and Dani with the details. He decides against visiting the warden again, lest his fist accidentally finds the man’s nose during their conversation. He’s got enough to investigate now.

Sheets of rain welcome Gil as he exits the prison, and once his phone is turned back on Gil is dismayed to find the cell service has been knocked out in the storm. After waiting five minutes for the pace to lessen (it doesn’t) Gil gives up and makes the dash towards his car. Dripping wet and struggling with the white noise of the rain against the Mustang’s roof, he makes the decision to head back to the precinct without waiting to call JT first. The sky is the same shade of grey in every direction, so the chance of his cell phone reception coming back any time soon is very slim. 

The drive back is far slower due to the rain, the windscreen wipers groaning in protest by the time the shadowy Manhattan skyline creeps into view through the car’s windscreen. Gil’s eyes have been glued to the road the whole time, not daring to check his phone for messages lest he lose sight of the white lines guiding him home. Crossing the Hudson River sees the rain finally start to ease, and Gil starts to tap the wheel in anticipation. The trip to the precinct garage is over in the blink of an eye, and as soon as the car is parked Gil’s hand drops into his pocket to check for any messages. There’s one from JT, the time stamp from five minutes ago.

**_SDNY are dragging their asses. No word on this mystery transfer yet._ **

****

Gil is once again thankful that he went to see the mysterious Johnson Taylor. Calling up Travelocity on his phone he resets the search parameters for JFK to DEN and waits for the page to load. It might take a few hours to secure clearance, but there is no way Gil will allow his kid to be alone for one more second.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

**Denver- that afternoon**

It was grey walls in New York. Cream walls in Colorado. Now beige walls are the only thing that Malcolm has to stare at after being moved for the third time in as many days. They’d dressed him a pair of grey sweatpants and a white long-sleeved sweater when he arrived, as this hospital wasn’t a criminal facility like Claremont was. The heating was significantly better here than the prison, but he was still trapped. A plastic band adorned his wrist with his false name and other useless information, a permanent reminder that he was nowhere close to being in control of anything these days.

The first thing the staff did when he arrived was escort him to a session with a psychologist, who spent the better part of forty-five minutes attempting to get Malcolm to talk about something. Anything. After two days of pleading with strangers to help him and getting nowhere Malcolm had decided he’d had enough of talking. It was a coping mechanism that worked when he was a kid, so there was no reason it couldn’t work now. He had sat in the chair in stony silence, knees tucked under his chin and stared at the same spot on the floor until the psychologist called for him to be returned to the general hospital area.

One saving grace was the fact that the doctor hadn’t immediately prescribed any medications for him beyond the Tylenol for his now raging fever. Keeping his mouth shut had meant the doctor couldn’t confirm a diagnosis of anything so there was no condition to prescribe for. For now, the only pain he has is related to his benzo withdrawal. His fever and nausea aren’t really gone, but the relief from the pain medication meant it wasn’t as noticeable. The fog that clouded his mind was still there though, a constant reminder of what his body was missing and another problem he couldn’t fix. His dad hadn’t followed him to the hospital yet, giving him a much-needed break.

He sat on one of the squashed couch cushions, observing the other patients and patterns in the ‘recreation area’, as it was called. Most of the other patients kept to themselves, and the few who were chatty moved on quickly from Malcolm when they realised he wasn’t going to say anything. One older man was quite happy to fill in Malcolm’s side of the conversation for a while, the man’s booming voice was low and slipped easily into the background of Malcolm’s mind as he schemed away.

There was a staff only section on the right-hand side of the room adjacent to the main door. It had an office area on one side and a makeshift storeroom on the other. Malcolm had been watching the staff station with interest, accessible only by swipe card. There was a landline phone they were using, the first he’d seen in days. If he could get inside that room, he could call Gil and this whole nightmare would be over.

The next challenge was deciding which guard to lift the swipe card from. Three staff tucked their cards under their shirts, making a quick grab nigh on impossible. The fourth man on the floor had his card attached to a retractable holder attached to his belt buckle. The man wasn’t hyper vigilant of where his swipe card was, this was Malcolm’s best bet.

Thirty minutes later Malcolm spies an opportunity. The man is chatting in a friendly way to one of the patients close to the station door, oblivious to anything else but the person in front of him. Malcolm groans as his aching muscles push him off the couch and towards his target. When the other staff are similarly distracted, he makes his move. A swift chop to the neck sends the guard plummeting to the floor, and before he collapses completely Malcolm rolls him over and retrieves the security card.

Chaos breaks out around him as patients and staff shout at him to stop, but he’s already at the door and waving the card over the scanner. The melodic sounds that chime from the wall as the lock deactivates has never sounded so sweet, and he rushes into the room and barricades the door handle in place with a chair. He takes a moment to close his eyes and take a breath, the sudden rush of movement after hours of sitting still is making him dizzy. When he opens them again, he locates the phone on the table; its black handset just waiting to be picked up and connected to a number. A little post-it note on the wall above it declaring ‘dial 0 for outside phone numbers’ is a godsend, and as he types the 0 he attempts to still his hands which are shaking with relief. He just needs to call Gil and this will all be over.

He just needs to call Gil.

On his cell.

Which has a number. That he can’t quite remember right this second.

He starts to type in the area code in the hope that the rest of the numbers will flow out of him like muscle memory. 332-555-

332-555-

His finger hovers over the keypad but the numbers won’t come. A sob escapes his throat as he stares at the ten little numbers that are standing between him and freedom.

Why can’t he remember?

The line times out and hangs up on him so he resets the dial tone and tries again. As he stalls on the last four digits again the thuds and shouting from the door are getting louder, and the handle is showing signs of failing.

Desperate and out of options he tries one more time, picking four numbers at random to attempt to complete the number. He’s pretty sure they are the last four numbers to Gil’s cell, but in his exhausted state he can’t remember if he pressed them in the right order. The call connects and he waits anxiously for someone to pick up.

“ _Hello?”_ His heart drops. It’s a woman.

Malcolm doesn’t even try to explain his situation, instead he places the receiver back on the phone’s base unit and slides down to sit on the floor. His grand plan was foiled by four little numbers. The tears and sobs escape his body freely as he howls in despair at the hopelessness of it all. He doesn’t notice the door give way and the strongest orderly climbing over the chair to reach him. Doesn’t resist as he’s forced to lay on his stomach on the floor. Barely notices the sting of the needle jabbed into his neck. When the darkness comes for him, he welcomes it. His nightmares can’t be any worse than this reality.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

**7pm. Dane County Airport, Michigan.**

Gil’s leg is tapping so fast there’s a fifty percent chance it might vibrate through the floor. On any normal day there would be a direct flight from Manhattan to Denver, however today there had been no seats left. After some nifty searching Dani had come through with the goods on a Delta flight that only had one extra connection through Michigan. The landing had been a hairy one even by his standards, and he could tell from the other plane take offs and landings that the conditions weren’t getting better.

The hive of activity behind the gate desks combined with the sombre expressions the airline staff were wearing fill Gil with a sense of foreboding. The Major 1st  chord alert tone that blares through the speakers minutes later confirms his suspicions.

_Attention all passengers. Please be advised that there is currently a crosswinds warning in place for this airport. All flights for this evening have been cancelled. Please seek out your airline’s customer service desk for further information._

The universe really hates the 16th precinct this week. Yet another obstacle lies in his path to finding Malcolm. Hundreds of people are now collecting their bags and children and shuffling as one long cohort towards the service desks. A few passengers like himself are keeping their heads down, some conferring with their partners against a backdrop of retracting air bridges.

Gil searches in his browser for a driving option, selecting a route and assessing how much time he could gain by switching to driving at this point. When Google informs him that the journey will be close to fourteen hours without stopping it’s the final nail in the coffin for making any progress tonight. His body is starting to fatigue from all the stress, and there is no way he is in a position to drive a car safely.

Resigned to waiting for an alternative flight in the morning Gil sends a quick update to JT and Dani before grabbing his small duffel and joining the slow-moving march towards the frazzled airport staff.

Malcolm would need to be strong enough to wait just a little bit longer.


	7. Chapter 7

The world is nothing but a haze. Spectres lurk in the corner of his unconscious mind as memories of his past and his present play on repeat. The girl in the box, John Watkins, and his father interchange with one another and won’t allow him a moment’s rest. Malcolm’s heart races at the speed of a hummingbird, the adrenaline flowing through his system escalating his flight response to a degree that he’s not entirely sure if the ghosts he is fighting off are real or imagined.

He runs and runs, and the world around him starts to feel a little more solid. The fear doesn’t leave him, and he’s too busy kicking and screaming to register the sound of an unknown voice above him.

_“He shouldn’t be this mobile- OW!”_

A sharp pain blooms from the front of Malcolm’s head and he can feel himself falling back on to something soft. He doesn’t understand why the world is soft all of a sudden. The voice comes back.

_“We can’t leave him like this, he’s a danger to himself. Grab the doc.”_

While he focuses on pulling himself away from a ghoul that resembles a decaying corpse he doesn’t recognise, the jab in his arm is barely noticeable. What he _does_ notice is the corpse fall away suddenly, replaced by an inky black void. Malcolm tries to outrun the oncoming expanse of nothing, but can feel the pull of oblivion once again. Just before he loses his thoughts entirely, the moment he fell apart in the staff station floats into his consciousness. He watches the scene outside of his body, remembering the terrible yearning he feels in his bones for safety and comfort and being denied once again.

He screams blue murder out of frustration one last time before the darkness engulfs him completely.

When he comes to, his eyelids feel heavy. It takes all his concentration to convince them to open even the tiniest crack. As the world drifts back into focus Malcolm’s brain scans the room, looking for clues. The only things he can deduce anything from are cream walls, opaque windows, and a sturdy metal door. The sight of the walls brings the memories flooding back; he attempted and failed to call Gil for help in the hospital.

He wants to reach a hand up to his face to rub the last vestiges of sleep away, only to find that he _can’t._ Both arms have been placed in restraints with the straps tightly adjusted, he has virtually no wiggle room to move his arms. Wanting a closer look, he attempts to roll towards his arms, yet he can’t do that either. Now that he’s fully awake Malcolm can see _and_ feel a grey vest completely covering his chest, securing him to the bed he is laying on. A quick test of his legs finds his ankles are strapped down too. The hospital has completely immobilised him in this room. The last thing he notes is an IV line inserted into the crook of his elbow.

_How long have I been out for?_ Malcolm wonders. Shortly followed by, _How do I get out of here?_

Feeling stronger than he did a few minutes ago Malcolm starts pulling against all the restraints, searching for the tiniest amount of slack and finding none. He now has even less freedom than his father, and the realisation causes his breathing to quicken apace. Should he scream out for help? They might not check on him for hours. The time for staying silent may be coming to an end.

As it turned it, the worry isn’t necessary. The door buzzes open and Doctor Perkins from his first session steps into the room. Malcolm notices his chequered shirt and blue tie he saw the man wearing last time has now changed to a cobalt blue button up. He may have lost more time than he thought.

“Good morning Mr Taylor, welcome back.” Perkins smiles. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

Malcolm remains silent, merely appraising the doctor as he talks, expecting he will fill in awkward silence with words.

“That was quite the display yesterday, trapping yourself in our staff station. Your file didn’t say anything about being violent towards others, yet you managed to clock Harold in the neck pretty good. Do you want to tell me why you hurt him?”

_No._

Perkins waits for a reply for a moment, continuing when he realises he’s not getting one.

“You probably think your current treatment plan is a little overkill, however you hurt another one of our staff while under initial sedation. We were forced to take precautions for your own safety.”

As the doctor describes it a vague recollection of bumping his head into something swims back into his memory.

_I wasn’t even awake. You can’t blame me for that._

“I would like to get these off you, Johnny, but I need you to show me some trust. Can you do that?”

The silence stretches on for half a minute.

“Until you can show me that trust you’re going to stay like this for a little longer. I need to know you won’t be a danger to anyone before I release you. In the meantime, we’ll continue any medications intravenously.”

Perkins starts to gather his notes and makes the motions to leave the room. Malcolm’s mind races as he races to decide what to do. He wants off this bed, and he doesn’t want to be injected with the wrong drugs. In the end, the decision is an easy one.

“I was calling a friend.”

Perkins turns back to face Malcolm. “What was that?”

“I was trying to call a friend, Gil Arroyo. Nobody listens here.” Malcolm croaks out, sounding like a leathered pack-a-day smoker.

“Well, I’m listening now. Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

_I’m innocent. You can’t keep me here. Call Gil._ The options display like a news ticker across his vision. In the end he decides on the simple truth.

“I’m Malcolm Bright. Profiler with the NYPD.”

A smile breaks out onto Perkins’s face. “Hello Malcolm, nice to meet you. I’ll be back later.”

“One more thing.” Malcolm whispers. 

“What’s that?”

“My meds. I need them. Please.”

“And what would they be, exactly?” the doctor asks. Malcolm rattles off the drugs and doses that line up on the counter in his loft. The doctor is surprised at his patient’s ability to recall such specifics of anti-anxiety meds, especially considering his file hadn’t mentioned any prior use of them. Perkins notes down the details without comment. “Thank you for sharing that with me. I need to continue my rounds, but I’ll be back, okay?”

Malcolm nods once and settles his gaze towards the window. The doctor walks out of the room leaving Malcolm to his thoughts.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Perkins finds himself casting alternate looks at his notes and his computer screen. The young man who had been admitted yesterday had exhibited such a contradiction of behaviors in such a short period of time he really doesn’t know what to make of him. His previous medical history had shown no warning of any type of schizophrenia. In their initial meeting he had seemed withdrawn, but not violent. He was able to subdue a staff member and access the station in a matter of hours, yet the information he had been provided had no indication that Mr Taylor would have that kind of knowledge to have executed a plan like that so quickly.

Then comes the admission of his name, Malcolm Bright. By the account from the prison the back story about this invented personality had been consistent, and the conversation he’d just had was no different.

Then there was the list of the medications. The doses ‘Malcolm’ had rattled off with ease were too specific to be the random ramblings of a separate personality. Assessing the person in front of him and the consistency of his story, it’s not outside the realm of possibility that this man could be telling the truth.

A quick search of the name Gil Arroyo turns up a lot of old news stories about his role in the capture of The Surgeon, an active serial killer from the nineties. The man exists outside of ‘Malcolm’s’ head, and he finds a number for his office.

One phone call is all it would take to check this story out. It would only take a moment of his time. In light of the fact that their first session yielded no results, Perkins picks up the handset and dials the number. He owes the man in his hospital that much.

The number connects, but the voice that picks up the call isn’t the male one the pictures promised him.

“Detective Powell.”

“Hello this is Doctor Trent Perkins, I was hoping to speak to Gil Arroyo. I’m a doctor at Canon City Memorial Hospital.”

“Gil is out of state on a case, is there something I can help with?” 

“Uh, I was hoping to confirm some details of a patient who was admitted yesterday.”

“A hospital? What type of hospital? Where did you say you were from again?” The woman’s voice speeds up, an urgency slipping into her tone.

“Canon City Memorial, we’re a psychiatric hospital based in Denver. The Lieutenant is the person I need to talk to, patient confidentiality and all that.”

“Is the name of your patient Malcolm Bright?” Powell asks eagerly.

Perkins pauses. This could be the first piece of the puzzle that is the mystery of Malcolm Bright falling into place. The man did say he worked with the NYPD. “You’ve heard of the name before?”

“Yes, he’s a consultant for the Major Crimes division and currently a missing person. Something happened on a case we were working. Out last intel was that he’d been transferred to Denver.”

“Ah, well that would line up with what he’s been telling people here. Our hospital two hours south of Denver.”

Detective Powell breathes a sigh of relief that Perkins can hear through the phone. “That’s a relief Doctor Perkins, we’ve been looking for him for days. How is he, does he have any injuries?”

“Uh, I’m afraid I can’t disclose that information at this stage.”

“Can you disclose it to Lieutenant Arroyo? He’s on a plane to Denver right now.”

Perkins winces and applies his best bedside manner tone. “Unless he’s a guardian for Malcolm I won’t be able to discuss anything with him either. I just needed to determine if Malcolm wasn’t a personality of the name he was admitted under. Now that I’ve done that, I will be able to provide better care for Malcolm while he’s here. Thank you very much for your help, Detective.”

“Wait! Can you pass on a message? Can you let Bright know that Gil is coming for him?”

“I’ll see what I can do. Thank you for your time today.” Perkins ends the call and heads straight back to his computer, discarding the message as he does so. His supervisor wouldn’t be granted entry to the hospital, his patient doesn’t need false hope at this crucial time. It is time to do some searching on Malcolm Bright. 

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

There was one thing for certain Malcolm had learned from today. He would never look at his restraints again with anything but gratitude. Doc Perkins was yet to return from completing his rounds, so he had remained tied down to the bed, incapable of moving. His thumbs kept reaching for phantom releases that weren’t there, so much so it was turning into a tic. The ceiling only had so many cracks to count, and the caged clock on the wall ticked away minute by agonising minute. He was up to fifty-six by his count. A nurse had performed a quick inspection of his IV line twenty minutes earlier, otherwise he was alone. It wouldn’t surprise him if his mind conjured his father in a second so he would at least have some company.

The sound of the door lock releasing sent his heart racing, and relief floods his body when Perkins re-enters the room, along with the nurse from earlier. 

“Sorry about that Malcolm, that took a little longer than expected. How are you feeling?”

Malcolm glares at the doctor before replying. “I’d like to get up.”

Perkins hums like a man who’s heard this punchline one to many times. “That’s what Jillian is here to help with. I’d like to discuss your ongoing care here first though, is that okay?”

The condescending talk is getting old. “Do I have a choice?” Malcolm grits out.

“No, I don’t suppose you do. While I was on my rounds I decided to place a few calls. I wasn’t able to reach a Gil Arroyo, but I did manage to speak to a Detective Powell. She was able to verify your identity for us. I have contacted the state prosecutor’s office and notified them of the situation. You won’t be meeting with them today.”

Malcolm sinks ever so slightly into the mattress, as much as his restrained body will allow. Finally. Somebody had picked up the phone. He can go home now. Malcolm expresses his relief with a sigh and manages a slight smile. For the sake of diplomacy. “Thank you Doctor Perkins. When can I go home?”

The doctor’s face tightens as his smile morphs from a smile to a grimace. “About that. I tracked down the name of your therapist and pulled your medical records, and I must say you’ve had quite the life so far Mr Bright.”

“I fail to see what that has to do with me going home. I shouldn’t even be here, remember?”

“See, that’s the thing. You’ve barely been here more than a day and you’ve already injured two of the staff here. Your night terror episode is one of the most severe I have ever seen in this hospital, and I’m concerned if we allow you to leave this hospital I would be violating my Hippocratic oath to do no harm. You need some help Malcolm.”

“Then I’ll get it at home, with people I can trust. You can’t keep me here. I’ll sign out AMA, I’ve done it before and you can’t stop me.” Malcolm stares up at the doctor in challenge. Perkins is unfazed.

“Actually, I can. You’re already in the hospital, and the law states if we are concerned for the well-being of any person we can admit them for an involuntary 72 hour hold. That’s what I’ve done with your case.”

“You can’t hold me responsible for how I acted after you sedated me. I’ve been transported half way across the country against my will, taken off my meds, and have a history of nightmares. What else was supposed to happen?”

“I won’t deny that you’ve been through a lot these past few days, but your response was so severe that it needs to be monitored. Now, Jillian here will disconnect your IV and we’ll see if we can’t get you situated in the main room.”

The IV is removed first, quickly followed by the wrist and ankle restraints. The bed is manoeuvred in a manner that allows the vest to be untied from the mattress, and although Malcolm is free to move once again he waits for the doctor’s permission to do so. The man gives Malcolm a small nod, and he sits up and swings his legs over the bed, eager to flex his rigid muscles.

“When can I leave?” Malcolm inquires.

“That’s fairly obvious Mr Bright. You’ll be with us for the next three days.” 

That can’t be right. “You said seventy two hours, and I’ve been here at least twenty four.”

“That is true, but you were admitted under the wrong name, and therefore we have had insufficient time to assess your condition. Once we admitted you again this morning the clock reset.”

“There’s no way this is right. I’m not some dangerous criminal, I’ve lived with this for years.”

“And from what I’ve seen in the last twenty-four hours I think there are some underlying issues that you haven’t acknowledged. I’m sorry Malcolm, but you won’t be leaving just yet.”

Malcolm studies the doctor, discerning from the man’s open posture and relaxed face that there is no deception in what he has just communicated. He honestly believes that the best place for Malcolm is here in this hospital.

Malcolm hates him for it.

And knows that he won’t be able to convince the man otherwise on his own.

Perkins mistakes Malcolm’s silence as acceptance and continues on. 

“Here’s what we’re going to do. We’ll get you back on the medications you are currently taking, and once they stabilise you and I can sit down and talk about your history.”

“There’s nothing to discuss. Not with you.” Malcolm spits.

Perkins shrugs his shoulders as he begins to exit the room. “That’s your decision, but I will say that the more you talk to me, the easier it’s going to be to agree to your release.”

Malcolm reels at the last utterance from the doctor. Although Malcolm is certain he didn’t intend it to sound like a threat, it’s all that he hears. The idea that his freedom isn’t guaranteed is terrifying, and something he can’t comprehend. He needs help.

“Do I at least get a phone call?”

“I’m afraid not. This isn’t the justice system, I believed you were a danger to the public and have taken the necessary steps to ensure that everyone, including yourself, is safe. We can revisit privileges if you’re stay with us is extended.”

The words wash over him, and Malcolm starts to pull away from the staff in the room. A few days ago he was bursting at the seams in excitement and anticipation of trying something new with his team. Then the world tilted on its axis for reasons he still hasn’t solved, and it’s resulted in him losing his freedom, with no chance of getting it back right now.

Although there is no tether in this hospital, the little voice that whispers _we’re the same_ now shouts triumphantly in victory at the realisation that he is trapped in a hospital. The Surgeon’s son has no way out. The staff file out of the room but leave the door open, permission to roam granted by the powers that be.

Malcolm stares at a spot on the floor, not feeling the desire to stretch his legs just yet. The exhaustion in his bones makes every movement ache, a side effect of the constant adrenaline spikes from days of being moved from one place to another, losing his autonomy piece by piece. He lays back down on the mattress on his side, knees curling up into his chest as the events of the last few days replay in his mind on a loop.

The pain and frustration tear at a spot behind his chest, burning its way through bone and flesh and setting every nerve in his body on fire. His first order of business upon being freed was to formulate a plan to contact someone, _anyone_ from his life to pull him out of here. But the only thing he can think to do is sleep. As the battle against the weight on his eyelids is lost, he conjures up his family and friends in his mind’s eye. Mother and Ainsley. Gil and Edrisa. JT and Dani. They watch over him with imperfect smiles and sad eyes, keeping him company until the fight with consciousness is lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with the story so far, I hope you're enjoying it! I also hope you're enjoying the new season as much as me.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys! Two short updates coming up before the final one, at which point my next BTHB story should be ready to start posting.

**Denver**

As soon as the flight got the all clear from the pilot Gil raced to turn his phone on, eager for any updates back in New York. To his relief the envelope flashed on the screen immediately, a message from Dani.

“ _Boss, we’re still working on contacting the warden at Colorado Territorial Correctional Facility to approve your visit. We’ll keep you posted and send the details to your inbox.”_

Gil exhaled a sigh of relief; his team hasn’t let him down. He now had a tangible location for Bright, and worked on calling up his email app, waiting for the updates to come through after restarting. A second notification stalled him halfway through.

 _“It’s me again. Do not go to the prison, Bright’s not there anymore. He was transferred to Canon City Memorial Hospital yesterday, and the warden wouldn’t explain why. Details are in your inbox….”_ The pause was a couple of seconds, long enough for Gil to assume the call had ended. Then, in a rush Dani continued, “ _Tell Bright we’re thinking of him when you see him.”_

That was something Gil could do.

The taxi rank was empty, the lack of luggage giving Gil the advantage with fellow travellers. The hospital was still two hours drive from the city, and yet his heart is racing at the prospect of being so close to bringing Bright home. A knot sits in his stomach, worried about what could have caused the prison to transfer Bright in the first place, and what that meant for his well-being right now. To take his mind off the doomsday prophesizing in his head Gil spends the rest of the ride apprising himself of all the information Dani and JT had managed to scrape together, and when the car pulls up at the hospital Gil is as ready as he can be to see Bright again. As he strides up to the iron gates Gil makes a promise to himself. He won’t leave this place until Bright is by his side once again.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

**Canon City**

The sense of déjà vu was overwhelming. Malcolm was in the same sweatpants, sitting on the same couch that he found himself in just yesterday. The only difference was now the plastic wristband detailed his own name, rather than the now defunct Jonathon Taylor alias. He had finally managed to convince the doctors who he is, but now their concern over his ‘violent tendencies’ had landed him in a 72 hour hold in the very same hospital.

It wasn’t all bad though. The medications in his afternoon dose were the same ones he recognised from home, and two hours after taking them the dull ache that had taken up residence inside his skull was mostly gone. His thoughts felt clearer, it felt like he was gaining the ability to think beyond the here and now. With his returned clarity his latest mind puzzle was to try and contact his mother or Gil. His mother would have lawyers here in a heartbeat if she knew what they were doing to him. It was a small comfort.

His original attempt to access a phone wouldn’t work a second time. Malcolm doesn’t want to press his luck and fail, and wonder what would happen to him if he tried to call without permission. For now, all he could do is pretend to be back in the precinct’s conference room, studying the case board as he attempts to solve this latest puzzle.

Out of nowhere he hears a thump on the main hospital door. The foot-wide window set into the door is the only one that isn’t obscured by white wood, the transparent square is the only window any patient has to the outside world. The thumping draws everyone’s attention to the door, Malcolm’s included. What he sees causes him to rush to his feet.

It’s Gil. As Malcolm pads slowly towards the door along with all the other patients whose curiosity is peaked, Gil’s frantic banging on the door increases in speed and although Malcolm can’t hear the words his friend is shouting there is no doubt in his mind what he saying.

“BRIGHT!”

The last vestiges of the fog circling his consciousness slips away and Malcolm’s stomach somersaults with joy as he realises what this means. If Gil’s here, he can explain his history to the doctors. He can _leave_. He rushes to the window before anyone else can get there first, blind to the staff shadowing his sudden movements. Watching and waiting to see if the Malcolm they first met will show up again.

As soon as he reaches the door he places a palm flat against the glass window, the closest thing he can manage to a handshake at the moment. Tears fall down his cheeks as the enormity of what he’s been through hits him like a ton of bricks. He shouts Gil’s name, smiles and nods at his hand, waiting for Gil to do the same.

The action is never reciprocated, and the emotion blossoming over Gil’s face is one of anger. Gil turns to shout at something or someone over his shoulder, yet the door remains locked. Immovable. The smile on Malcolm’s face begins to falter as the realisation hits him that Gil must not have the authority to demand Malcolm’s release. His body language becomes agitated, and a hospital staff member slides into view and attempts to pull Gil away from the window. He’s not having a bar of it, but now his attention is fully diverted away from the window. Away from him.

“Gil!” Malcolm calls, thumping the window on his own side in an attempt to recapture his friend’s attention. 

“Malcolm…” a voice behind him warns. The warning means nothing. He’s so close to being able to get help. Malcolm watches as Gil is dragged away from the window, now accompanied by a second staff member who is helping the first one force Gil further and further away from him. Towards the exit.

“GIL!” Malcolm shouts, his fist smashing into the glass with a ferocity he hasn’t felt in days. The nerves in his hand protest at the abuse, but he pushes through it so the noise will continue. Gil manages to shrug his escorts off before he disappears from sight completely, and all he can do is turn back to the window one last time with a look of utter helplessness. Gil’s face mirrors his own, his jaw has dropped slightly and the pain in his eyes is visibly evident. Both men freeze as they stare at each other before a hand clamps down on Malcolm’s wrist and wrests it away from the window. An arm slides over his chest and attempts to separate his body from the door.

Malcolm won’t leave this door without a fight.

Calling on all his dormant training Malcolm plants his feet on the floor, bends his knees and lands an elbow into the soft stomach of the guard behind him. His wrist is released as the man hits the deck, so he goes straight back to hitting the window, relieved to find Gil standing firm in the hallway.

“Call my mom! Get me out of here!” is all he can think to say. The puzzled look on Gil’s face telegraphs that he needs to simplify the message. Behind him the guards are regrouping, this is his last chance.

“CALL MOM!” Malcolm shouts, as four hands hold onto him tightly and wrestle him away from the door. There’s no way he can fight two of them off at once, so with one last painful glance Malcolm closes his eyes and submits. The guards take full advantage of his lack of resistance, dragging him down the main hallway back to the room he’d woken up in earlier that day. His handlers drop him unceremoniously in the middle of the floor while one secures the door and the other focuses on the bed. Lost in his own thoughts, Malcolm realises far too late what they intend to do.

“No. Please, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. I just wanted to see my friend.”

The guard who locked the door advances towards Malcolm, who is now scrambling backwards on his ass. “Too late, Taylor. I mean, Bright. Doc will want to talk to you now, and you need to stay put.” He reaches down and clamps onto his arm, dragging Malcolm towards the bed.

Malcolm is easily overpowered and dumped onto the lumpy mattress. The staff make quick work of the hand and foot restraints, thankfully the vest has been removed so he’s not completely trapped. Taking a moment and huffing from the exertion the two men gaze with utter disdain at their patient strapped to the bed.

“Good luck explaining this one. Get comfortable, you’re not leaving for a while.”

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

“Why won’t you let me see him? I have every right to.”

Gil has been relocated to the pokey office which according to the name on the door belonged to one Dr Perkins. Gil’s already been informed that Malcolm won’t be allowed to leave by law until the involuntary three day hold period ends, and he’s now moved on to try to speak to Malcolm. Though he’s been offered a seat Gil opts to stand and pace the narrow room, only managing three small steps before a bookcase on either side turned him around. Anger seeps out of every pore.

The doctor seems unfazed. 

“I’m afraid you don’t.”

“I need to see him, to ask if he’s okay. I’ve come all the way from New York, and he shouldn’t have been in Denver in the first place! You know he wasn’t even supposed to be here, he’s a victim in all this! I swear the kid’s heart broke when you didn’t open that door.”

“It’s not that simple Mr Arroyo. You have admitted that you are neither immediate family nor an individual with Power of Attorney over Mr Bright, therefore I am under no obligation to arrange a visit for Malcolm.”

The logical part of Gil’s brain understands what is being explained to him, and yet the only thought that runs through his mind is to attempt to smash the wall down Hulk style to get to the kid. The two sides of his brain war with each other for a few seconds before logic wins out. It’s diplomacy time.

“What if I could contact his mother? Would her authority be enough to grant me access?”

The clinician leaned back in his chair as he pondered the proposal. “I’m still not entirely comfortable with Malcolm receiving visitors at this crucial time in his care.”

Time to bring out the big guns. “Of course, I understand. Though, I wonder how your facility is going to handle the barrage of negative press headed your way.”

“The what?"

“If you know who Malcolm is you know who Jessica Whitly is. I have been the one in her crosshairs before, and I’ll give you the tip. When Jess finds out her son is here, and you won’t let me check that he’s okay, she will rain down a deluge of reporters and attention for your hospital. Do you want that, Doctor Perkins?” Gil pauses his march to let the words hang in the air, gaining weight with every passing second. The man starts grows uncomfortable, refusing to look Gil in the eye.

“Alright, Mr Arroyo. If you can contact Malcom’s mother, I will consider a visit.”

Gil wastes no time in calling Jess. The shock at Gil’s news of Malcolm’s current residence morphs swiftly to indignation over the treatment of her son. Within minutes the indomitable Mrs Whitly and her army of lawyers are on the phone with the now nervous doctor, grilling him on the finer points of Malcolm’s care (or insinuated lack thereof.) After ten minutes on the phone, and the psychologist looking a little older for his troubles, Gil gets the nod he’s hoping for.

The next time Gil approaches the entrance the security key Doctor Perkins waves around unlocks the door and the pair step into the facility. The Lieutenant’s eyes scan the room speedily keeping an eye out for Malcolm’s distinctive frame, but he’s unable to spot him.

“Where’s Malcolm?” Gil wonders aloud, and turns to the doctor for answers.

“I suspect he’ll be in his room. Standard protocols after a physical altercation.”

The news of Malcolm getting physically violent with another person is concerning to say the least. Gil can only wonder about how healthy he must feel right now, and the desire to reunite with Malcolm only grows stronger. “Lead the way.” The pair turn towards a corridor to their left, stopping five doors down. It takes a moment for the correct key for the lock to be located, but before Gil can burst in the doctor hovers a hand above his chest in warning.

“If your visit agitates Malcolm in any way I will have you removed immediately. His safety is my priority, and the two of you need to understand that he won’t be leaving unless I say so. Am I clear?”

Gil nods tersely, grating out a single word; “Crystal.” Perkins swings the door open and what Gil sees breaks his heart.

Malcolm is strapped to a bed, up on his elbows and yanking on the restraints on his wrists. He freezes at the movement of the door opening, and his wide eyes dart up in panic, tears tracking down his cheeks and falling onto his white cotton tee. A sob escapes his chest as his eyes comes to rest on Gil once Perkins makes a space for him in the room. The kid looks like hell. The simmering fury that had been his companion since he’d first seen Bright fizzles out into crippling guilt. It had taken too long to find him, and this is where Malcolm had ended up. Tied to a bed, alone. The guilt builds like an hourglass over-filling with sand, threatening to burst its confines and scatter in the breeze.

“ _Gil.”_ Malcolm breathes, three days of loneliness, anxiety and now relief crammed into a single word. It’s almost too much for Gil to bear. His feet want to carry him out of the room, to let him work through his emotions in private. There’s no way he will though. Gil won’t leave Malcolm now.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short update readying for the last final chapter shortly. We're almost at the end of this journey, hang on with me a little longer, and thank you for making it this far!

As soon as the guards leave Malcolm starts pulling against the straps on his wrists, finding them unhelpfully strong and immovable. The task gives him something to occupy his mind for a while, instead of spiralling into a pit of despair at the realisation he’s been abandoned.

After the effort in futility that is trying to escape the bed he’s tied to Malcolm lies back down onto the mattress to take a breath and order his thoughts. The chasm of despair threatens to swallow him whole, until his brain supplies him with a spark of hope.

Gil is here.

He’s ninety nine percent sure the Gil Arroyo that banged on the hospital door was real.

The anger on his face when the hospital denied him entry was an expression that Malcolm wasn’t very familiar with. His exhausted mind would have had a hard time imagining such fury on Gil’s face.

Gil knows he’s here. And he knows that Gil will stop at nothing to get him out of this place. Tears of relief spill down his face, with no hands to wipe them away they have nowhere else to go.

Seconds like by like hours, and the urge to get up and do something is overwhelming. He sits on his elbows one more time and begins to pull at the straps again, this time so single minded in his focus that he misses the snick of the door lock as it opens. The sound of footfalls is what draws his attention, and with the entrance of two pairs of shoes Malcolm assumes it’s the guards returning to force him back into the vest.

He looks up in a panic, only to find himself starting at Doctor Perkins and Gil. Wearing the same turtleneck he’d seen minutes earlier.

He _has_ to be real. The grief plastered all over his face isn’t something his mind would supply either.

“ _Gil.”_ He manages to breath out, waiting for confirmation from someone that this isn’t a figment of his imagination. 

Gil composes his features into a sad smile, the best he can do in the circumstances. “Hey kid.”

Doctor Perkins steps into the room and approaches the bed Malcolm is trapped on. He works swiftly on each of the four restraints, explaining as he goes, “Lieutenant Arroyo insisted on seeing you. We don’t normally allow visitors during a mandatory seventy-two-hour hold, but in your case we’ve made an exception. He has some connections who proved… persuasive.”

“I called your mom.” Gil supplies.

Malcolm manages a laugh, despite his situation. “That’ll do it. So this means I’m going home, right?”

Gil winces, and Malcolm knows the answer before he utters a single word.

“We tried kid, but there’s no way to break a three day hold once it’s been signed. Your mom’s lawyers are good, but they can’t do the impossible.”

Malcolm is momentarily lost for words. The universe continues to find cruel and unusual ways to punish him. “But… you know I was never even supposed to be in Colorado, right? That has to count for something?”

“Malcolm, we’ve been over this.” Perkins sighs. “You exhibited behaviour while at this hospital which I have determined requires further assessment. How you arrived at our care is irrelevant at this point.”

Malcolm scoffs loudly as he remembers his earlier discussion in this same room. “Yeah, I remember. Time to throw out 2020 and hurl it into the sun.”

“There’s a lot of people who would agree, I’m sure.” Perkins nods. Malcolm infers the doctor is agreeing with him merely to placate a potentially agitated patient. The act has the opposite effect.

“Come on, doc. You don’t need to play nice, I’m not gonna do anything.” Malcolm focuses his attention back on Gil. “What happened, how did I end up here? Did you catch the insider at the prison?”

The sad smile that was frozen on Gil’s face morphs into an awkward grimace. Malcolm has a sudden flashback to when Louisa had been lumped with having to inform him that his beloved carpet python had met a timely end. “We stumbled on to something much bigger during your undercover op, a paranoid employee learned just enough to see through your cover story, and his overactive imagination did the rest. A few mouse clicks and you were gone. I’m so sorry, kid.” 

The words reverberate through Malcolm’s head, repeating themselves in a loop.

An overactive imagination.

That was the reason he had been ripped away from his family and friends. To be treated as nothing but a pawn in a completely different game, one where he never knew what the moves were. Struck dumb by the news, Malcolm can’t even string a sentence together in reply.

Gil and Perkins allow the silence to extend long beyond what both men would expect, and it’s Gil who takes the first leap.

“The important thing is that we found you, and I’m staying until you can come home, okay?”

The weight that has been crushing down on his chest lightens at the news that Gil will be staying. Malcolm offers a small nod in thanks.

Perkins clears his throat to draw both men’s attention back towards him. “I’m going to ask that Lieutenant Arroyo only return in two days. I have allowed him to see you today so he can relay an update on your condition to your mother. Now that he has observed you for himself, I don’t believe it necessary for him to return until my assessment is complete.”

Malcom keeps his face blank, hoping that Gil will fight the doctor on this one. He knows as a patient his words will mean nothing, but there is a chance Gil could sway the doctor’s opinion if he chooses to fight. A small part of his brain registers that once again he has no control over anything in his life right now, but he can’t allow the thought to overwhelm him. Losing it in front of the man who holds the key to his freedom won’t do him any favours. Instead he takes up the lost art of telepathy again, willing Gil to come out swinging.

“Alright, Doctor Perkins, no more visits. But I will be here at 9am on Sunday and Malcolm will be coming home with me, yes?”

“Well Lieutenant, that’s entirely dependent on Malcolm here, isn’t it?” Perkins smiles condescendingly, and it takes all of Malcolm’s strength not to reply with anything rude. The doctor makes a show of looking at his watch, and Malcolm knows what’s coming next. “I’m afraid we need to wrap this up, I have patient appointments to keep.”

“Wait!” Malcolm calls out, his breathing fast and thready. “Can I…” words fail him as he realises he doesn’t actually know how to ask for what he wants. He needs to touch Gil. To know that this whole conversation isn’t some figment of his imagination. Anguish fills his features as he is paralysed by indecision, but there’s something in his expression that Gil interprets better than any words he could have come up with. Without waiting for permission Gil side steps around Perkins and wraps Malcolm in the biggest bear hug they’ve ever shared. Malcolm falls into the embrace, holding on for dear life as Gil whispers words that only he can hear.

“Thank you for finding me.” Malcolm whispers. With his face buried in a swath of cotton he doesn’t see the guilt flash across Gil’s face once again.

He clears his throat and manages to whisper a message of his own; “Two more days, city boy. I’ll be here. I promise.” 

The two men break apart, and Gil offers one last reassuring squeeze of Malcolm’s arm while staring him square on in the eye.

“No more fights, okay kid? They’re not helping your case.”

Malcolm nods, “I know. I’m just tired.”

“Get some rest then. See you soon, Bright.”

Perkins reaches out an arm towards Gil as a reminder it was time to leave. “I’ll see your friend out, then I’m coming back. There are things we need to discuss.”

“Sure, whatever.” Malcolm hugs his elbows as he watches the key to his freedom and Gil leave the room, the heavy door locking behind them.

Two days.

He can do this.

He just has to play by the rules for two more days, then Gil will be waiting. Maybe even his mother too. Malcolm finally feels like he can breathe, that he can look up in hope.


	10. Chapter 10

Canon City- 2 Days Later (Sunday)

Malcolm strides the length of his hospital room close to the pace of a jog, absently chewing a thumbnail as he walks. It was the most spacious of all the cells he’s been subjected to over the last few days, and right now he was grateful for those extra paces he can squeeze in before the wired windows force him to turn around.

He’d woken up when the sun was barely rising, nervous anticipation consuming his ability to rest any longer. It was still too early for the doors to be unlocked, and after attempting a yoga session with limbs that would not stop shaking he had resorted to expending all the pent up energy the only way he knew how. Good old-fashioned walking.

This morning was the day that Perkins would pass judgement on whether Malcolm would be permitted to regain his freedom. Malcolm had kept his promise to Gil, he had been the picture of a perfect patient. He had spoken honestly to Doctor Perkins about his father, John Watkins and The Girl in the Box and hadn’t laid a finger on anyone else in the building. He’d drawn the line at making friends though. No need to make friends if you’re not staying.

Doctor Perkins was a switched-on man, one who listened to Malcolm without prejudice. He’d seen through Malcolm’s first few attempts to deflect and distract, more than holding his own. As Malcolm’s medications began to stabilise in his system again the soup his mind had been wading through started to lift, and he became less suspicious of the psychiatrist. While Malcolm didn’t feel as though he had made any new ground breaking progress over the last few days, he was definitely in a better state than when he had arrived. 

He hoped that would be enough.

The floor practically has a groove in it from the track Malcolm has made by the time the door eventually swings open. Malcolm makes sure to step well away from the door, lest anyone claims he is trying to leave the room before permission is granted. He won’t jeopardise his release now. Not when it’s so close.

Malcolm wanders down the corridor to his favourite spot on the brown couch, skipping the procession towards the breakfast area. The butterflies flittering around his stomach were too great to ignore, and stopped the idea of food joining the fray cold in its tracks.

As the other patients were settling in with their cereal and toast Malcolm jumps when his surname booms across the open floor. The source of the shout was his doctor, waving him over towards the hallway again.

Having no choice but to follow Malcolm walks as expeditiously as possible, determined to avoid any scrutiny by the other patients. A call out during breakfast was highly unusual, Malcolm hoped that it was good news and wasn’t about to risk an incident now.

The doctor re-enters Malcolm’s room, and a part of him shrinks back in trepidation, worried about the worst-case scenario. The doctor makes no move to close the door behind him, which Malcolm takes to be a positive sign. Nevertheless, he approaches the doctor with caution.

“Good morning, Doctor Perkins.”

“Good morning, Malcolm! I just wanted to check in and see how you were feeling after another night.”

“Well, I’d say that my sleep is no worse than usual. I know where I am, and I’m not seeing my father anymore. I am…ready to go home.” Malcolm studies the doctor for an advance warning of bad news, but the man’s face is inscrutable. After a pause, the doctor asks a different question.

“And why do you think I should release you today?” the man asks, his eyes never once leaving his patient.

Malcolm takes a moment to consider his answer. While his more vivid nightmares have remained dormant since the last time they sedated him two days ago, the doctor had made it more than clear of his concerns around the ongoing challenges Malcolm faces. One wrong word or phrase and his freedom is gone.

“I would never claim that you have completely cured me. The things I have to live with didn’t disappear in the last three days. I would hope that you can recognise that I have family and friends back home that look out for me. Your notes from Doctor LeDeux would have told you that I’m not a threat to anybody, and since my medications have stabilised my behaviour has followed suit. This person in front of you today, _this_ is who I am, for better or worse. I just hope that is enough to get me home.”

“And what about your medications? Will you continue to take them?”

Malcolm scoffs at the question. “There is nobody on this planet who wants to take his medication more than me. I begged people for days to give them to me. I will take everything you give me, I promise you.”

The doctor remains silent for a minute, studying Malcolm and his notes in equal measure. The seconds drag into what feels like hours, yet Malcolm remains steadfast.

Waiting.

Perkins eventually drops his arms by his side and bows his head in a small nod. “Very well, Mr Bright. I’ll agree to your original release date. You’ll be a free man by lunchtime.”

Relief floods into every fibre of Malcolm’s being, and the tears well up before he can stop him.

“I need some time to sign off on the final assessment, after that you will be free to go. I’ll call Lieutenant Arroyo and update him, as promised. He left you some clothes which you can pick up from the staff station, seeing as you can’t really leave the hospital in what you came in.”

The wave of relief crashes into the profiler again as he realises he won’t have to put his dreaded prison uniform back on. Anything Gil has managed to pick up for him will be an improvement.

“Yes, I would think someone wandering around with DOC on a set of prison scrubs might not be the best thing for my safety out there. Plus, I’d probably catch hypothermia the second I stepped outside.”

The doctor laughs as he begins to lead Malcolm back out of his room and into the hallway. “You might be exaggerating how cold it gets here Malcolm, but I see your point. I’ll start on the paperwork, why don’t you get yourself some breakfast while you wait?”

“Sure thing, doc.” Malcolm agrees, even though there will be nothing solid passing his lips this morning. Nerves and dread have now been replaced with relief and joy, yet both states of mind manage to have exactly the same effect on his stomach. Malcolm, ever the model patient, busies himself with a bowl of something resembling cardboard and finds a place to sit. Waiting long enough to satisfy any watchful eyes that he must have eaten something Malcolm clears his bowl and stares down the staff station for his blessed clothes.

After twenty minutes the profiler slips into a daze, lulled there by the rhythmic tick-tock of the clock on the wall. There had been no movement in the staff area, and Malcolm needed something else to focus on lest anyone think he was planning another rush on the door. The minute hand manages a full rotation around the dial, and there’s still no sign of his doctor, nor the promised garments.

The relief is beginning to turn into tension once again, so much so that Malcolm resorts to joining the morning Tai Chi session in the corner of the recreation room to try and dispel some of the nervous energy.

Three hours after Malcolm had been cleared to be released the bark of his surname from one of the orderlies rings out across the room. The clothes rest in his hands.

Freedom is one step closer.

It takes everything Malcolm has not to run towards the man, and he collects the clothes without incident before rushing back to his room. Although the quality of the fabrics were not as good as what lay waiting in his wardrobe at home, the style was certainly within what Malcolm would normally wear. The simple navy sweater with a high round neck and black jeans could be some of the finest things he wears this year.

Malcolm takes his time changing out of his hospital issued sweats, figuring if it took three hours to find the clothes the paperwork must still be hours away. It comes as a surprise as he pulls the sweater over his head to find Doctor Perkins and an orderly entering from the corridor.

“Ah, you’re ready to go, I see! Excellent. Warren here will complete your discharge and escort you through the security checkpoints to the entrance.” The doctor extends a hand, and Malcolm clasps it out of habit and shakes it briefly. “Best of luck, Mr Bright.”

And just like that the doctor moves on to the next patient, his coat sweeping around the corner as he exits.

Malcolm stands shell shocked for only a moment before darting forward to catch up to the orderly who was making a beeline for the exit at quite the clip. Caught between walking and jogging, the profiler ends up doing more of a canter through the thick security door. As the door closes behind them Malcolm glances back one final time, relieved to be staring at the other side of the door he’s been focused on for days.

The paperwork takes all of two minutes to sign (funnily enough there was _not_ a waiver preventing any lawsuits against the state of Colorado) and before he can blink the exit of the hospital is in front of him. After days of waiting around and doing nothing the last few minutes have passed as if sped up on a record player. And yet, the world slows down as he steps towards the windows to activate the automatic doors.

The glass panels slide open to reveal a cold blast of air, one that immediately causes Malcolm’s shoulders to chase his ears in an attempt to stay warm. A quick scan of the surrounding areas reveals the ambulance parking area to his left and the ticket machines to his right, as well as a fifteen minute parking area.

Standing in that short term parking area against a sedan rent-a-car was Gil. The older man had already seen him, and was leaning back on the car with his ankles crossed, beaming from ear to ear.

The events of the last five days threatened to undo Malcolm right then and there.

This was real.

He was going home.

Malcolm willed his wobbly legs to carry him over to where Gil was waiting. When it became apparent that Malcolm might not quite make it Gil bounces off the side door and strides across the asphalt to make up the distance.

“Hey there, city boy.” Gil calls out as he walks, his arms raised and ready to envelop Malcolm when they were close enough.

“Gil.” Is all Malcolm can manage before his face is swallowed into the warmth of the thick cable knit sweater Gil is wearing. The profiler clings onto Gil for dear life, oblivious to the queue of cars beginning to form behind them as they block the road.

After one very loud horn blast from an angry utility the two men finally break apart. Neither of them mention the tears in each other’s eyes, and they support one another back to the car. Gil left the car idling, so the interior is warm and welcoming when they both climb inside.

Gil starts talking before the car’s even out of the parking bay. “Alright kid, we got a flight in four in hours and it’s gonna take at least half that to get to the airport. I assume you don’t wanna stick around and see the sights?”

“I saw enough out of the transport windows to last me a lifetime. Let’s just get to the airport.”

“Look at that, there’s a first time for everything I guess. Maybe if you were wearing that white suit again you might have felt differently.”

The pinstripe suit and the sensation of falling out of a window roars to the front of Malcolm’s mind, and he can’t help but smile at the memory. “I’ll keep that in mind the next time I need an outfit to show up to prison in.”

As Gil directs the car onto the highway the two men lapse into silence, each of them stuck in their own minds.

Halfway through the journey Malcolm builds up the courage to ask the question that has been burning inside of him for two days. Ever since Gil had told him how this nightmare started.

“What happened to the person that did this to me?”

Gil’s face softens as he answers, “We pulled the audit trail on his computer, the guy wasn’t very smart at all. JT and Dani confronted him with the evidence and he caved. That’s all I can tell you though, SDNY apparently swooped in and now he’s holed up with them somewhere.”

“The good old Federal versus State. It never fails to get in the way.”

“Look, I think they don’t even know the depths of what this guy is involved in right now, we may not know for weeks or months.’

“I know, I know.” Malcolm agrees, somewhat reluctantly. The truth was always messier than it seemed to be in books.

The rest of the car ride passed by with Gil regaling Malcolm tales of the precinct in his younger days, but the younger man was only half listening. He’s spent so much time alone these past few days, although he appreciated the familiarity of Gil’s voice, he didn’t feel any obligation to join in. As the car headed into the heart of the city Malcolm felt the pressure on his sternum return, as his mind raced from the influx of external stimuli it hadn’t had to deal with for days.

The pressure begins to lift when the airport carparks explode out of nowhere.

He is not alone.

When the two men enter the terminal Malcolm casts his gaze around the busy airport, as they make their way to the departure gate. It feels like it’s been weeks since he was last there. Flashes of memories and despair come back to him as he walks the same aisle again, and before the memories consume him, Malcolm reminds himself that Gil is right here, next to him. He’s fine.

“Aisle or window?” Gil asks, and Malcolm smiles apprehensively.

“I don’t really need a window seat, always preferred the aisle.”

“Sounds good to me,” Gil says easily as he slips inside.

Across the aisle is a family of three, and the little girl is staring at him with open curiosity. Malcolm gives her a small wave and a smile, which the girl enthusiastically returns. Her mother notices and gives him a polite smile as well. It’s all a vast contrast to the last time he dared make eye contact with anyone. Malcolm rests his head back and takes in a deep breath.

It’s over. He’s safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for coming with me on this journey! Your comments and kudos have kept this story running and I am so thrilled to be able to finish this for you.  
> I know that some people may be disappointed that I didn't write about the other two days with Malcolm in the hospital, I felt that if he's on his best behaviour there wasn't going to be a lot of angst. However, if you had an idea of what could have happened you can find me on the trash server to chat about it (or you can write it yourself for all of us to enjoy!) 
> 
> Huge thanks again to Sab whose cheerleading and support got this thing finished. 
> 
> Thank you so much everyone, see you very soon on the beginning of a totally different adventure xx

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to my darling ProcrastinatingSab for being the ultimate brainstormer and cheerleader on this story. It wouldn't be where it is today without you! 
> 
> As always if you want to chat and get excited about season 2 and are 18+ you can find me on the [PSon Trash](https://discord.gg/UvxeqKYWJS) server.


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